


We Break the Wheel Together

by Michelle1029



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Daenerys Deserved Better, F/M, Jonerys, Love and Duty, Redemption, Redemption for almost everyone, Targaryen Restoration, but not mean either, episode 6 fix-it, lots of fluff, not kind to the starks, originally a one-shot but I got carried away, rated m for attempts at smut but don't get your hopes up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 161,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle1029/pseuds/Michelle1029
Summary: Tyrion's words echoed in his head as he walked towards Daenerys, his heart breaking at the thought of what he was about to do. He had failed her, he knew. His Dany had been replaced by Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and he wasn't sure if she could be helped.Summary: Jon makes the decision to not kill Daenerys and instead vows to help her. With King Landing destroyed, Daenerys and Jon have to deal with the consequences of her actions, Jon has to deal with his own regret over actions that he should have taken, and Daenerys has to come to terms with what she's become. (Canon, she still did the deed, but she is NOT the MQ)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! this is my first fanfic ever. I wrote it mostly out of anger and sadness at what they had done to the characters I loved. The lack of dialogue in season 8 led to the most disappointing ending I could have imagined, too many questions were let unanswered. Yes, it was conclusive (doesn't mean good), but the lack of meaningful conversations between characters only left me wondering "what if?" So this is a "what if" fic. What if Jon Snow actually said something other that, "You are my queen"? What if the Jon Snow we know actually showed up?

“We break the wheel, _together_.”

As he looked down at Daenerys, her eyes full of childlike hope and pure love, he made his decision and pulled her closer to him, lowering his lips to hers. The guilt that immediately followed the sweet taste of her mouth almost made him pull away in shame. How could he have considered it? Tyrion’s words only angered him now, the man had been so quick to give up on her, to abandon her. Jon knew that he had abandoned her as well, in a way.

The vulnerability she had shown him on Dragonstone was only met with Jon’s inability to reconcile his two identities, is he a Targaryen or a Stark? Is she his aunt or his Dany? He didn’t know then and so he said nothing. He was unable to choose in that moment, when she had asked if she was more than his queen. Still, he realized now that he should have said something. Done something. She didn’t need the comfort of a lover, just the comfort of someone who cared for her.

Maybe knowing that he did love her, cared for her in a way she so desperately needed would have prevented the massacre that followed. She would have known that it didn’t need to be fear, that love was possible, that she had love with him and so she could with the people.

Jon quickly stopped his thoughts, there was no reason to dwell on what he should have done, it would do nothing to change what happened. Instead, he focused on his queen before him, vowing to himself that he would not leave her side again _._ She needs him more than before, now that she’s lost sight of her true self.

She pulls away, out of breath, her lips reddened by their kiss.

“We’ll leave the world a better place than we found it. Future generations will never know what it’s like to live and die in the shadows of a tyrant. They’ll know only peace and happiness and know that you and I gave it to them.” she says with a fearsome passion.

 _Tyrion was right about one thing_ , he thought. _She doesn’t sound like she’s done fighting_. He doesn’t dwell on the implications that possibility might hold, instead he tries to bring her back to the present, to face what she’s done.

“Aye. The world will be peaceful, now that the war is won. But the people of Kings Landing need you, before you think of continuing your fight,” she opens her mouth to argue but he cuts her off, “Dany, you’ve killed thousands, destroyed the city, the people need someone to lead them, to help them rebuild their city and their lives.”

Only then does she show concern, acknowledges her actions, “And why would they want me to do it? You see how the people rejected me before, turned me away because of the name I bear. And now I have no possibility of winning their love, not after I’ve rained fire and blood upon them. No. Fear, it has to be fear, Jon, it’s the only wa- “

“It’s not,” He rushes to say, before she becomes resolute in her belief, “Fear is not the answer anymore, Dany. It won you the war, but you have no need of it now. You are the Queen, you have a dragon, armies, no one would dare rise against you.”

She pauses for a moment, thinking on his words before the mask of a queen falls over her face, and she pulls away from him. “And the North? Sansa betrayed you, betrayed your trust. She has the power to turn the largest of the kingdoms away from my cause with one word of your parentage.”

He knows she’s right. Sansa is a danger to her reign, as much as it pains him to admit. She had proven herself untrustworthy the moment she took his secret and used it as a pawn in her own game, a game he had made very clear he didn’t want to play. In a way, her actions led to Daenerys’. He would be a fool to blame Sansa for all the blood spilled, but he couldn’t help but think that things would have played out differently if she hadn’t planted that seed of doubt that led to Tyrion betraying his queen. As soon as Tyrion believed there was a better option, he had stopped advising Daenerys, his efforts not nearly as ardent as they had been before.

“We can’t worry about the North. You named me Warden and you are my Queen. That has to be enough. Should Sansa begin to rally the Northern lords against you, I will deal with her myself. Please, Dany. She’s my sister.”

“Small mercies, Jon Snow. I almost lost the war because of small mercies. And Sansa hasn’t proven herself worthy of my mercy.” The coldness in her voice chilled him.

“Am I? Worthy of your mercy? Don’t do it for Sansa, do it for me. Don’t make me choose between you and my family when there isn’t cause to do so just yet,” He begs her, letting the fear he feels take over his voice, hoping it will sway her. “Please, Dany.”

Her face softens again, into a look that he knows is meant only for him.

“You are more than worthy. But I should hope I would never have a reason to grant it to you,” the fire in her eyes starts to dim, “I suppose you’re right, though. Sansa can't do much while the Northern forces are here with us. Very well, I said together, my feelings towards your sister won’t change that. We’ll worry about the Northern threat when we need to, _if_ we need to.”

“Thank you, Dany,” he relaxes, knowing that his family is safe from her rage, at least for the moment.

Suddenly she becomes desperate in her actions, her hands coming up to grip his arms, her eyes searching wildly for something in his face, “But should a time come when you need to choose? Tell me now, Jon Snow, if you would choose them. Would I be enough family for you? Or would you wish for something more? Please, spare me the heartbreak and tell me now if I should ever fear for a life alone.”

He knows in that moment that he is her one true weakness. That he had the power to steer her in the right direction. _I can manipulate her._ The thought leaves him feeling uneasy, though he knows he needs to embrace it, for her. To bring back _his_ Dany, the woman with the good heart. She’s there, he knows it, and it’s his duty to bring her back. Not only for her sake, but for the sake of everyone else in the world.

“You, it will always be you,” He answers with the confidence he should have had that night on Dragonstone. He pulls her back to him, enjoying the feeling of having her body so close to his. “Together, Daenerys.” The relief in her eyes causes another wave of regret to wash over him. He had failed her too many times.

 She kisses him then, softly, just enough to know that he’s there with her.

“Good. I need you, Jon Snow. I’ve lost so much for this throne, I couldn’t bear to lose you as well,” she whispers, her lips lightly brushing against his, the softness in her voice reminding him of their time on the boat, when she would lay with her head against his chest, tracing his scars with her fingertips, telling him stories about her life, lemon trees, and red doors. “So what would you have me do?”

Realizing she’s now talking about the city, he quickly begins speaking, “Call off the Unsullied, the war is over, there is no need for more killing. Tell Grey Worm to spare the remaining Lannister soldiers. Ensure that the Dothraki won’t rape or pillage and I’ll do the same with the Northmen. We need to take care of the people, before anything else. Get them fed and healing, before their fear turns into hostility.”

He’s relieved when she slowly begins to nod, accepting his words.

“We’ll stay, then. In Kings Landing. Help me earn their love and respect, teach me. If they can accept my rule, perhaps I can reward their loyalty with kindness. But the smallfolk are not the only people I need to win over. The lords and ladies of Westeros will hear what I’ve done, they’ll be quick to judge me for it. They may have hated Cersei but she wasn’t burdened by the history of a mad father. If I don’t have their love, I won’t have a choice to but resort to violence in order to keep the peace.”

The lords and ladies. He didn’t know how to win over lords and ladies. Smallfolk were easy, he knew what they wanted. He grew up no better than them, in truth, despite his royal blood. But the nobles of Westeros, he didn’t have the faintest idea on how to win them over.

He knew who could, though he loathed the idea of letting him anywhere near Daenerys. Tyrion may have been shit at war, but he knew politics. He would know how to proceed in the fight against the prejudices and hatred the houses held for Daenerys. He wouldn’t want to, Jon knew, but he would have no choice if he wanted his life spared. Besides, it wasn’t Tyrion he was concerned about. Men are easy to control when they have a knife at their throat. No, it was Dany. She hadn’t taken Tyrion’s betrayal lightly. But they needed him in order to salvage something good out of the damage she had inflicted on the city.

“Tyrion—”

“No,” She cut him off as soon as the name left his lips, “I can’t trust him. I had so much faith in him and his wise words, even after they led to nothing but failure, and yet he chose to betray me the moment I don’t heed his advice. No, he’ll conspire behind my back. He’ll plot to have me murdered, if I give him the chance,” Jon looks away from her, then, unable to look her in the eye and tell her that her fears are unfounded. “He might even try to turn you against me, Jon. He knows I love you, knows that I trust you. He would have you take advantage of that trust, he cou--”

“He won’t get the chance,” Jon starts, his voice carrying across the ruins of the throne room. It startles her, but he couldn’t let her mind wander to that dark thought. The thought of the deed he had very nearly committed when he had first walked up to her, the ultimate betrayal of her trust, her love. He was ashamed to admit that Tyrion’s attempt at manipulation was almost successful. Had he followed through, Daenerys would be bleeding out in his arms right now. His heart clenches in pain at the very thought. “We’ll keep him as a hostage of sorts, he won’t leave the castle, we’ll use him for his mind, and leave the rest of him. Only those loyal to you will have access to his rooms, I swear it. But we need him, I know nothing about the lords of Westeros or how to play the game, he does. I can make progress on the common folk, he can advise us on the noble houses. He owes you that much.”

He can see that she’s considering his words and an optimistic hope takes root in his chest, knowing that she is still able to listen to reason, to see solutions that are not her own.

“You’re right, I know you are. But Tyrion betrayed me, he needs to be punished for it. He needs to suffer and be used as an example to those who would think to plot against me,” Jon gives her a pleading look then, silently asking her to accept that his idea is the best course of action, and she reluctantly concedes, “It seems I’ll be granting another small mercy to you, then, Jon Snow.”

“Not a mercy, this time, my queen. You said we’d rule together, so allow me to rule. I would never think to undermine you, Dany, but if you want me by your side, you need to accept me as your equal and trust me.” They are words he’d never thought he’d say, and he can’t suppress the bitter taste they leave in his mouth. His one unwavering stance while he was King in the North, the one thing he was always the most sure of, was that he didn’t want it. He didn’t want the crown or the responsibility of a ruler, even if it was only bestowed upon him by a single kingdom. And yet, he now found himself asking, no, _telling_ , Daenerys that she would be sharing her crown and her kingdoms with him. But he would do it for her. As much as he wanted to leave the city, leave the kingdoms and all the dishonorable politics behind, that would mean leaving her behind, and he knew he could never do that.

 _It’s funny_ , he thinks, _the one time I choose my own wants and desires over what I'm told is my duty, I become more burdened by responsibility than ever before._

“I trust you, Jon, I do. More than anyone now. Without you I would be truly alone and I know how terrible it is to be alone,” she begins, a gentle fear seeping into her voice, “I’ve believed for so long that I would have to fulfill my destiny alone, that I would have no one beside me as I ruled. Having you here, sharing the burden of restoring the good name of house Targaryen, I can think of nothing that would bring me greater happiness. Please, even if you one day decide that you no longer want me, just don’t let me be alone.”

“You’ll never be alone, my Queen.” He stares into her eyes, hoping she sees the love and devotion he held for her and know that his words are true.

Tyrion was wrong, duty is not the death of love. It won’t be for them. _Instead_ , he thinks, _it will my duty to love her._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind response! I really hadn't planned to make this a multi-chapter story, but I guess the anger and disappointment I feel has brought out the creative side of myself that I didn't think existed. So here is a second chapter. :)

Grey Worm had appeared shortly after their conversation in the throne room and Dany quickly relayed Jon’s plans to him; the Unsullied were to cease executing Lannister soldiers and begin to restore order in the city in whatever capacity they could and the Dothraki’s celebration would need to stop until the rubble was cleared away. Grey Worm nodded curtly at her, accepting her command but Jon knew he would rather kill every man dressed in Lannister armor if he could. He was full of hate and vengeance for the people who took away his love and Jon couldn’t help but pity him.

After the order was given and Grey Worm had left, he’d managed to convince her to rest, to retire to whatever chambers weren’t left in ruin and sleep. He went himself to find her a meal, knowing she was paranoid about what was put in her food. And if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure if he could trust the remaining castle servants either, not after what she had done. He wouldn’t put it past them to try and end her reign and, if he was being honest, he couldn’t fault them for it.

She hadn’t had a proper rest since Rhaegal was shot down, he's sure of it. He has a naïve hope that she would wake up as she once was, the queen he had willingly given up his title for, but he knows it's in vain. It wouldn’t be that easy, nothing ever was for Jon. He could only hope that a filling meal and a decent nights’ rest would subdue her sudden desire to conquer the world, at least right away.

He looks down at her now, the pain in his chest loosening its tight grip and allowing him take a deep breath, knowing she was safe and _alive_. The image before him was a great contrast to the fearsome dragon he had encountered not an hour before. While the red and black colors of her house elevated her to an intangible, ethereal being with skin as sharp as Valyrian steel, the soft white shift she had stripped down to softened her. She was still ethereal, still otherworldly in her beauty, but he could touch this woman without fear of cutting himself. Dany's crown of braids had been taken down by a Dothraki woman while she picked at the meal Jon brought to her and her silver tresses now fell in loose waves down her back and over her shoulders, framing her angelic face.

She's small and vulnerable in the imposing four-poster bed, masterfully carved with lions along the dark wooden frame and decorated with deep red and rich gold linens, curtains, and pillows. When she had first seen it, she almost refused to go near it, scoffing at the idea of laying to rest on Lannister colors. But he gave her a look that told her she was being unreasonable, and she gently smiled back at him, dropping her argument before she could make it. That was his Dany, and with every moment he spent with the Queen, every instance the woman he loved broke to the surface, refusing to be drowned by this new conqueror, he was more sure that he had made the right choice.

“You should rest as well, Jon. Liberating the world will take time and we need to be strong for it.” She reaches out to him, and he wants to accept her offer, but he couldn’t sleep just yet.

“I will, my Queen. Perhaps I’ll join you in a few hours. But I need to speak to my men. They disobeyed my orders. The actions they took during the fighting need to be addressed, I won’t let them think I approve,” He shudders as he remembers the heinous acts they had committed. He had wanted to believe that Northern men had an innate goodness to them, but he could not have been more wrong, men were the same in every corner of the realm. “They’ll assist in clearing out the city, removing the bodies from the rubble before they begin to decay and spread illness to those who remain living. They aren’t maesters or healers, but they know the injuries of war, perhaps they can begin to dress the wounds of the civilians as well to prevent infection from spreading too quickly.” He purposefully slips in the last part, the bitter and gruesome aftermath Drogon’s flames had left in their wake, and takes a silent breath of victory when she averts her eyes from his and stares intently at the blanket in her lap.

“Alright,” she answers back quietly, after a moment of silence, before straightening her back and meeting his gaze again, swallowing whatever remorse she might have felt, her tone shifting to that of a ruthless monarch, “but the Northmen’s loyalty is not to me, I need you to ensure that they won’t speak ill of me to the people. They may be defeated now, too weak to fight, but I don’t need them getting ideas of revenge.”

“They won’t,” he bites back, just as fiercely. He’s only now beginning to realize that he needs to meet her fire with his own. He can’t allow her to be so heavy handed with anyone who is not him. She may be a dragon, but so is he. “I’ve told you, Daenerys, the Seven Kingdoms are yours. You can’t be so eager to start a war with your own people.”

“I don’t want a war, Jon, but the people don’t understand my vision of the future. They don’t know what is good and I can’t allow them to reject the world I can give them before they see it, not if I want my triumph to remain undefeated, to be praised across the Narrow Sea. Liberating cities is a lot less bloody when they want to be liberated.”

It would be the hardest thing he would have to do, making her realize that the Iron Throne was enough. It had been her goal for so long and now that she had achieved it, she should be content. He has a plan, though, to make her see. He couldn’t suggest the idea of remaining here immediately, not while she was riding high on the feeling of power. No, he would suggest it in the future, soon, when the ash and dust had settled, and she could see the goodness that was possible if she chose to rule with kindness and mercy, if she remained where she was.

For now, though, he would let her keep her vision of liberating the world, it’s what gave him the power to sway her decisions. If she believed he was only making her dream more possible, she would be less likely to fight his plans of mercy. He hates lying to her, letting her believe that he wants what she does, but above all else he wants to help her and prays to all the Gods that when the time came, she would thank him for it.

“You’ve done what you wanted, Daenerys. They fear you. People who are fearful are malleable, so tell me truthfully, would it not be better to respond to their fear with a gentle hand? To let them know that the pain is over? All they want now is peace and an end to the violence. They won’t rise against the person who grants them that, even if she caused it.” Davos had once told him the people don’t concern themselves with the game of thrones, that it didn’t matter to them who sits on the Iron Throne, so long as they still had their freedoms. He doesn’t know if there was any truth in those words, he could only hope.

She gives him a curious look before a sweet smile takes over her face. “I was right. You were born to rule along side me, to lead the people into the new world with me. But I fear that you have too much faith in the world we live in now, my love. One day you’ll see the ugly truth of it and realize that we have no choice but to meet it with fire and blood.”

“But I do know, Dany. This world has already killed me once, I know how cruel it can be. But I also know that mercy and fairness can give you just as much power as fear. I was named King in the North because I did not meet disdain with fire and blood and I did not force my reign upon them,” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, grasping her hands tightly in his. “You asked me to help you earn their love, this is how you earn it. You don’t force it and you don’t punish them when it is not granted right away. It will be a slow and it won’t be easy. But it’s what we must do, you know that.” He surprises himself with the passion in his voice, suddenly very eager to prove her beliefs wrong.

She sighs loudly, understanding that she can’t change his mind as much as he can’t change hers, “Fine, Jon. We’ll do it your way, I can’t deny that it’s worked in your favor so far, maybe it could work in mine.”

He pulls her forward, then, suddenly aching to have her lips on his, and he’s met with her equal enthusiasm. She pulls a hand away from his to grasp the nape of his neck, running her fingers through his curls. His tongue runs along her bottom lip, begging for entrance and she grants it with a quiet moan. He moves up, onto his knees, to push her down onto the bed, and she pulls him down with her. One of his hands falls down to her waist while the other find a place on her neck, stroking the smooth skin with his thumb.

He ends their kiss abruptly, leaving her breathless, the want in her eyes almost too much to resist, “You won’t regret it, Dany, I promise you.” He places one last kiss on her lips before he leaves the bed, remembering that she needed to rest before anything else. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She smiles again, “You’d better be, Jon Snow, you’re just as tired as I am.”

He is tired. The small battle of words he just had with her exhausted him more than he thought it would. And there would be many more to come. He’s disheartened by the idea. He had wanted so badly to be done with fighting. But as he stared down at Dany, _his_ Dany, for that’s who she is right now, he knows it will be worth it. This small women with a beautiful smile and kind eyes gazing up at him was not the woman who slaughtered a city. This is who he would be fighting for.

Her eyes begin to close, the recent events finally taking their toll on her, and he quietly slipped out of the room.

\----------

As he comes down from the castle, away from the safe place he had created for Dany, he's once again shaken by the reality that faces him. The cries of pain he had heard on the way up had quieted, and he knows it was because many of them had already escaped their suffering. Davos had been waiting for Jon just outside, but he couldn’t stand by and watch the horrors of death play out in front of him without trying to help. And so, Jon found him in a street outside of the Red Keep, helping a young woman to her feet and whispering words of comfort to her as she moans at the slightest movement. Jon could see she had been fortunate enough to be spared the pain of dragonfire, but the falling buildings had damaged her small body to a great degree. Davos leads her to a group of ten or fifteen Unsullied guiding a group of the injured and dying to the large courtyard where Daenerys had delivered her terrifying speech. It was the only place near them that wasn’t half covered in debris and he knows none of the people are strong enough to make the walk to the city gates.

“What happens now, Jon?” Davos asks as he made his way towards him, the anger and disgust in his voice evident, “I thought I had seen the worst fire can do. The fire of the Red Woman, wildfire, but dragonfire is almost too gruesome to believe. If it doesn’t turn you to ash in an instant, it melts away your skin and leaves you begging for a quick death. Why did she do it? The bells were ringing. They surrendered and she burned them alive anyway.”

He wants to defend her, his Dany, but he know he can't. “I don’t know, Davos. Only she can explain why she did what she did, I won’t try to. But the damage is done, we can’t dwell on it.  I’ve convinced her to stay her hand, to stop the cruelty of her soldiers and help the people she’s hurt. I’m going now to gather the Northmen. They can aid in easing the pain they’ve caused.” He walks away, avoiding the disbelief in the older man’s eyes. Of course, it isn't fair to expect him to continue to support her, not when he only knows her as Daenerys Targaryen, and not Dany, but he isn’t ready to listen to another lecture on how he should abandon her.

\----------

As much as he wants to punish each individual man for their crimes, he knows it was impossible. He only hopes that his promise of punishment along with their new tasks would be enough to quell anymore dishonorable and violent acts. 

He couldn’t leave them to tend to the vulnerable men, woman, and children unsupervised, they no longer have his trust, so he asks Davos to oversee them. The older man agrees, eager to put a stop to the suffering of others.

As he leaves his troops, he could feel Davos’ questioning gaze on his back. He would explain later, when Davos saw that Dany was already trying to right the wrongs she committed, when her men had made progress on restoring the city. It would be easier to convince Davos that what he's doing is right when he sees that she cares. Jon still didn’t know if she did, though. Or if she even regrets her actions. It’s a worrisome thought, Dany refusing to see that what she had done was a great atrocity, he could only hope she would realize it when she came down from her cloud of victory. In any case, it was yet another burden he had to bear as her equal.

He makes his way back up the steps, passing Dothraki soldiers who had stopped their celebration and had begun to clear out the larger fallen rocks, moving them to a surprisingly neat pile on the side of the keep. He thanks the Gods for their loyalty to their Queen and their willingness to do whatever she asks of them. Without their compliancy, he wasn’t sure his plan would be possible.

As much as he wants to return to Dany, to wrap his arms around her soft form and sleep for days, he has another task to complete, this one more unpleasant than the last. He has to speak to Tyrion.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be very transparent, I don't know where this is going. I don't have an outline or this story, or even an ending in mind. I'm hoping it'll come to me. Anyway, Dictator Daenerys won't be disappearing right away, a 180 like that would just be unreasonable writing. Even though I know it isn't who she really is, I'll work within the parameters of the trash we were given (I'm still bitter, can you tell?). I also want to make it clear, if I failed to do so in the chapter, that Jon is not okay with what she's done. He knows it was horrible, but he also wants to save the woman he loves. I actually had to find a place to cut off this chapter, so the next one had already been started. Again, thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people! Once again, thank you for the kind words, they really keep me motivated. This one is...more talking. I'm sorry if you're tired of talking, but all of the potential conversations that never happened this season frustrated me, and I wanted to get it all out before I get the ball rolling. As it turns out, a lot was left unsaid, so here we go.

Jon makes his way down the quiet hallway, the Unsullied men stationed there remain as still as the stones behind them, their eyes following his movements the only signs of life. Had it only been hours since he had first made this walk? He was so lost then, so unsure of his next course of action, vulnerable to even the poorest of advice, so long as it took the decision out of his hands. Tyrion had known that too, he could see it in Jon’s stance the moment he entered the room, and he took advantage of it. He tried to use Jon to rid the world of a great woman, the woman he loved, and Jon had left the room believing Tyrion’s words to be the only possible remedy to the devastation.

That Jon Snow would not be walking into the room now. He squares his shoulders and places his hand over the pommel of his sword. He grips the handle of the door and pushes it open with a heavy hand, startling Tyrion awake from his place on the floor. He spares him a brief glance before he turns to shut the door and gather his wits, the sight of the former Hand makes him feel nothing but anger. He takes a deep breath before turning back to face the small man, who's now standing and looking at Jon in confusion.

“I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you, Jon Snow, I thought committing regicide would earn you a quick death or, at the very least, the worst cell the Red Keep has to offer,” As he says this, Tyrion eyes widen in surprise before settling in disappointment. “You didn’t do it.”

“No, I didn’t.” His voice is low, his anger fighting to break through the fragile veil of control, “I almost did, though. I almost did what you wanted and killed the woman you once had so much faith in.”

Tyrion sighs. “You saw what she did, Jon, don’t pretend it was ri—”

“It wasn’t right, Tyrion! I know that!”

“Then why did you let her live? Anyone else would have been quickly put to death for the crime she committed, so why wasn’t she? Are you so blinded by love that you can’t see the monster she’s become? Would you abandon your duty to the realm just so you can continue to share her bed? I thought you were more honora—”

“Stop,” Jon cuts him off swiftly, before the anger he feels blinds him from reason, “You asked me to kill the Queen. Told me it was my duty to protect the people from anyone who was a threat to them. I almost did it too, I almost put a knife in her heart. But the woman who did that, who killed those people, that wasn’t the woman I walked up to, that wasn’t the woman I was going to murder.”

The look of pity that overtakes Tyrion’s tired face was enough to make Jon avert his eyes to the ground and lose the rigidness in his stance, his confidence wavering slightly. The man was clever, decent, despite recent events, and even in his current sorry state, Jon couldn’t help but feel affected by his judgment. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do it. It was wrong, too much of a burden to place on you. I know firsthand how deep the scars of killing the woman you love are, they never fully heal. It’s no matter, you are not the only man in the world with a sword, we can find another way. I won’t ask it of you again.”

Jon’s head shoots back up, the threat to Dany’s life dissipating the inferiority he had briefly felt. “We won’t find another way. She won’t be killed.” Tyrion gives him an incredulous look, opening his mouth to argue but he doesn’t get the chance before Jon straightens back up to his full height, towering over Tyrion in both stature and strength. “She will be Queen and I will rule alongside her.”

Tyrion lets out a tired chuckle, “And you think she’ll let you? Daenerys loves power, she loves the feeling of superiority and importance she has with power. Do you truly think she’d share that? Do you really believe she would give power to the man who is the biggest threat to her claim?”

“Your failures as Hand have never been more evident, my Lord. I do believe it, because she’s told me so. She asked me to. Tell me, Tyrion, did you speak to her at all after Sansa told you? Did you comfort her at all after she lost her dragon and her closest friend? Did you do anything other than tell her that her anger was unreasonable?” Tyrion has the decency to look remorseful, being reminded of all the things he should have done as her Hand, as her _friend_. “If you had just spoken to her, you would have known the depth of her grief, of how fragile she really was. I won’t pretend I didn’t make the same mistake, but I will right it. I won’t leave her side now and I won’t lose my faith in who she is because of her lapse in judgment prompted by the people closest to her.” He takes a deep breath, unaware that his voice had risen with each word until he had all but yelled the last.

“So, what will you do, Jon? Will you support her inevitable slaughter of more innocents? Will you orchestrate the next mass murder she’ll commit yourself? I fail to see the logic in your plan.”

“I’ll stop it. I refuse to believe this is who she really is. She is not her father, she is not mad. I know you believe that as well, Tyrion. Her actions shocked you as much as anyone else, because the Daenerys you know would have never done that. She is not completely lost, our Queen, and I won’t sentence her to death before she is given a fair chance to return to us.”

“And if she never does? What if the tyrant she’s become is who she will remain? The lives she takes next, their blood will be on your hands as much as hers, I hope you know that. Will you be able to let her go then? To see that she’s lost to you? Will she earn a death sentence then?”

He brings up a fair point, but Jon will not give it a foundation to grow. The path before him is forged in the one truth he knows, Dany has not disappeared from the world, and that truth needs to remain firm and immovable in his mind. He can’t consider the ‘what-if’s’ because he refuses to let them become possibilities. No, he will stay true to his path, and give all his strength in ensuring that Dany will as well.  

“Your faith in her is absurdly weak. Why she named you Hand, gave you that honor, I’ll never know. But it doesn’t matter now, the influence you had with her will not be given to you again, you will not be given the chance to betray her, and you will not be given the chance to convince stronger men to do your bidding. The Queen will remain very much alive and take her place on the Iron Throne, and I will be by her side, helping her, checking her worst impulses and stopping her before she acts on them.”

“That’s a lot of orders to give to a dead man, Jon Snow. Or does the Queen intend to draw out my suffering? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, I won’t deny that I betrayed her or that I would do it again, the laws of the land give her every right to kill me however she sees fit,” he walks up to Jon, giving one last, weak argument. “She’s a stubborn woman, resolute in her plans once she’s made them. To be frank, I don’t think you’re strong enough to do it, to stop her. She’ll bend you to her will, Jon Snow, as she already has. You’ll see quickly enough that you won’t be successful, no matter how sure you are in your plan.”

“I’ve already been successful, my Lord. The Unsullied are tending to the people, the Dothraki are clearing out the city, do you think she did that? Aye, she gave the order, but only because I told her to.”

“Oh, is that what’s happening now? I’m glad to hear it, soon enough the people will sing her praises and bow down at her dainty feet! Don’t be naïve, Jon. Cleaning up your own mess does not make you a good person, she shouldn’t be admired for it.”

Jon lets out a quick sigh of frustration. “Tyrion, I know the duty that rests on my shoulders and I don’t take it lightly. I know it requires me to be a stronger man than I have been. Perhaps I wasn’t clear, when I say I will rule alongside her, I don’t mean as her Hand or as an advisor, I mean as her equal. My words will have as much power as hers and I can meet her fire without fear of being burned.”

“She has a dragon at her back, Jon, her words will always be more powerful than yours. I hate to ask you more questions when you seem hellbent on ignoring most of them, but what do you plan do when she decides to go against you? She may be listening to you now, I’ll admit I’m impressed that your efforts have not been in vain, but she won’t always. One day she’ll be so firm in her belief, in whatever terrible deed she wants to commit, that your protests will fall on deaf ears, the roar of the dragon will drown them out.”

“She wants you dead, more than anything else at the moment,” Jon starts, his voice tired. “Your observation was correct, those were a lot of orders to give a dead man.” Tyrion eyes widen is disbelief. “You will not be killed. You’ll be kept alive because I say so, as I told Daenerys. But my mercy does not come without a price. You will serve the Queen and I. You will have the duties of a loyal advisor, you will give us council, and work in our best interest, but you will not have the honor it brings. You are still very much a prisoner.” His voice is firm, his words strong and to the point. The words of a King.

Even still, Tyrion finds it in him to be defiant, perhaps he wants Jon to cut him down in a fit of anger. “And if I refuse? I don’t see how you’ll be able to pull wise council from my mind, not even dragons are capable of that power.”

“You’re not allowed to refuse, Tyrion. I have my duty, this is yours. The blood spilled from here on out will also be on your hands. You cannot remove her from power, so if you choose to waste away and stay silent instead of give your council, you will be alive to bear witness any atrocities that may be committed and know that you had a hand in them, that you could have preven—”

“So you’re anticipating more atrocities? Good to see all the faith you have in her. I must say, that was a terrible attempt at appealing to my consci—"

“You do not get to bow out of the fight now, just because it’s gotten a bit more difficult, a bit more bloody. A good world is one worth fighting for, you’re a fool for thinking it would be free of casualties.”

He turns away from Tyrion, making it clear that he’ll not hear another word from him, and walks towards the door. He swings it back open, abrupt enough to startle the Unsullied soldier closest to the entrance. Before he shuts it behind him, he turns his head to speak to Tyrion one last time, “You will be brought to Daenerys and I on the morrow to discuss the next course of action. We need the support of the great houses of Westeros, that will be your duty. You best have a plan ready, my Lord.”

\---------------

Whatever bit of weak sunlight that managed to peak through the heavy clouds of smoke and ash is fading now, the day coming to an end. While the hour isn’t late, it looks as though it’s been night for a thousand years. Once again, he finds himself making his way down a corridor littered with Unsullied. This time, though, he doesn’t dread what lies beyond the door at the end.

He steps into the room, quietly shutting the door and twisting the lock, the pain and sorrow on the other side effectively dismissed for the evening. He worries about how quickly he’s able to forget what he’d witnessed in the streets, how easily he can push it from his mind and think only of his Queen. What if Tyrion is right? Maybe she is too strong for him, too powerful to be tamed, maybe she’s already bent him to her will and he’s too blind to see it.

He quickly shakes the thoughts from his head, the truth he believes is the only truth that exists, it has to be. He must keep that at the forefront of his mind, let it guide every action and every word he says. He must place that truth above Daenerys herself, so it isn’t overshadowed by her and the effect she has on him. As much as he is her weakness, she is his. Refusing her will be difficult, arguing with her will be difficult, and telling her that her actions were evil and cold will hurt them both. But he knows he’ll have to do all of it, eventually.

That thought drains him of any remaining energy he has, and he sluggishly readies for bed. He spoke more words today than he had in the last year, he’s sure of it. And tomorrow will be more of the same.

His mind is blank, his body going through the practiced motions of removing his clothes, when his hand moves to the small dagger at his waist. The dagger that he would have used to kill Dany. He removes it from his belt and stares down at it, the guilt he had felt rushes back to haunt him and he desperately looks towards the bed, searching for her. His eyes settle on her sleeping form and calmness washes over him. _I didn’t do it, she’s here and she’s safe_. He wants nothing more than to have it melted down, to make it so it in no longer existed in the world with the woman it was meant to kill. For now, though, he settles on placing it back into its sheath and moving it to a table at the far end of the room, away from her. _I won’t ever touch it again_ , he thinks, _I won’t protect her with the blade that almost took her life._

He finally walks over to the bed and stares down at the small woman in the center of it. She looks peaceful, a faint smile gracing her lips, the vengeance and aggression he knows she feels does not have a place in her dreams, it seems. Or maybe she's just too tired to feel them. He climbs on to the bed carefully, slowly, remembering from their nights on the boat that she’s a light sleeper, no matter how exhausted she may be. A primal heat spreads through his body as he remembers what had made her so spent, but he pushes it from his mind, reminding himself that sleep would be needed to endure the coming days.  

His efforts prove unsuccessful and she blinks awake when he lifts the blankets to climb in next to her. She stares up at him, her eyes full of nothing but a gentle love. “You were gone for quite some time,” she starts, glancing to a nearby window. “It’s dark.”

He settles into the mattress and pulls her to him, needing to have her close, to feel her soft, warm skin on his. She hums in contentment, and settles into his side, stretching her arm across his torso.

“I wanted to oversee the orders you gave to Grey Worm, make sure they were being followed.”

“Grey Worm would never disobey my orders, Jon,” she answers back, her voice flat.

“I know that, Dany, I just wanted to see how they were being carried out. These are my people too, now, you can’t blame me for wanting to ensure they’re being treated fairly,” he refuses to argue with her about small things, gently reminding her that he was her equal, no longer just her Warden of the North or the man she loves. “I also went to speak to Tyrion.” He probably shouldn’t have told her, but he can’t lie to her, even if it’s by omission. She’s experienced so much betrayal in recent weeks, she’s most likely anticipating the next one, he won’t be the one to commit it, to betray her trust.  

He feels her body tense, she removes her arm from him and pushes herself up onto her elbow to stare down at him. Her face is unreadable, her eyes flashing through too many emotions for him to guess. She’s trying to control her them before she lets them be known to him. She surprises him by settling on a calm facade. Her hand moves back up to his chest and her fingers idly playing with the ties at the neck of his shirt. “Oh? Did he have anything interesting to say?”

He’s not sure what to say next, how much he should reveal. He wants the truth laid out before them, he wants her to know what Tyrion had asked of him and how he had almost done it. It would hurt her, he knows, but having her find out another way, having Tyrion blurt it out to make her angry, that would break her again. He’d rather her find out here, by him, as he hold her close and tells her gently in the quietness of their little world, where he could quickly reassure her of his love for her. He wants that ugly truth to be out and forgotten. He couldn’t tell her before, not while he was making a case for Tyrion’s life. But he should now, and so he does.

He takes a deep breath, contemplating his next words. “You were right, you know. He tried to have you killed. I went to him…before I went to you. He asked me to do it, told me it would be what was best for the world, the people.”

She’s staring down at her fingers, no longer fidgeting with his top, but frozen on his chest. “Do you think he was right?” she asks quietly, though Jon can hear the anger bubbling underneath.

“I...he is good with words. He knows how to play a man’s weakness. He reminded me of the duty I had to the realm, to protect the innocent.” He doesn't want to say it, that Tyrion’s words occupied in his mind when he had walked towards her in the throne room. That he almost did it.

Her eyes become glossy, and Jon isn’t sure if the gathering tears are those of anger or those of grief, he can only watch helplessly as she absorbs his words.

“You almost killed me.” She whispers, so quietly Jon wasn’t sure if it was meant for him to hear. A single tear slips from her eyes before she wipes it away. She remains still, her silence frightens him. The only comfort Jon can take is that she hasn’t pulled away from him, that her hand still rests on his chest. “Why didn’t you?” she asks, though there is a bite her words and her small hand curls up, the knuckles going white. She’s settled on anger. “You had to think there was truth to his words, to consider them, to come to me right after. So why didn’t you?”

She’s not angry, he suddenly realizes, she’s hurt. It’s worse than anger, in a way. The wounded tend to lash out when help is offered, refuse comfort when they so desperately need it.

He speaks quickly, hoping he can get through to her before the wound festers and she turns away from him completely.

“Because I didn’t want to do it, Dany. Aye, he reminded me of my duties to the realm, of all the vows I’ve taken and the people I’ve led, but the when the moment came, when I could do it, I just didn’t want to. I’m tired of doing what other people think is right, doing what other people want. So I didn’t,” He shifts their position once again, moving her back onto the bed and staring down at her, refusing to let her escape his next words, “I chose you over the realm. Over the vows I’ve taken and the people I’ve led because I love you more than any of it. My duty to this, to us, is more important to me than anything else. I won’t lie to you, Dany, I don’t accept what you’ve done. I don’t think it was right. The city outside of this room is in ruins and the people are suffering because of you. But what kind of man would I be to betray the woman who sacrificed a dragon and half of her army for me? To murder the woman who has saved me from death time and time again? No, I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to live with the heartbreak it would cause me, the regret. So, I didn’t do it.”

He hopes that she can see that it was a simple choice for him, to not kill her, to choose her over everything else when the moment came. That he doesn’t regret the actions he took instead.

She averts her eyes from his, looking down towards the end of the bed, her next words are tired, all the fight gone from them, “Why did you go see him again?”

He wants to shake her in his frustration, to grab ahold of her and refuse to let her go until she says that she knows his words are true, that she believes in his love for her. Instead, he answers her question in a resigned whisper, “To tell him that he will live because of my mercy, that he is my prisoner, and he will serve us during our reign. He is to have a plan for the noble houses by tomorrow.”

“Good.” She nods, still refusing to look back up at him, “Perhaps it would be best for you to sleep elsewhere, Jon Snow. We both need to rest and I want to be left alone.”

He nearly scoffs at her words and tells her she made him promise he wouldn’t leave her early that same day, but he knew poking at her anger would be unwise. “Then face the other way and close your eyes, Dany. It will seem like I’m not here.”

“And leave my back exposed to you?”

Those words felt like a slap to the face, but he lets her say them, lets her lash out, he deserves it. He’d stay up the rest of the night arguing with her, refusing to leave the bed, following her if she decides she will instead, but he will not let her be alone. He won’t give her the chance to fall deeper into her hurt, he won’t let her be left with nothing but her own destructive thoughts. He made that mistake before and the cost was great.

“Then don’t turn away.”

She huffs in frustration, realizing that her subtle command for him to leave wouldn't be followed. “You’re an infuriating man, Jon Snow,” she mumbles as she turns away from him, moving closer to the edge of the mattress, away from him.

As she settles into her new position with a heavy sigh, he can’t help but smirk at her behavior. He always knew his queen had a flair for the dramatic.

They should probably talk more. It doesn’t feel right to let sleep take him while she's an arm’s length away, having just been told that he almost killed her. But his body disagrees, his eyes shut of their own accord, and Jon forgets all his troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is tricky to write for, I won't lie. This is probably the most OOC I've written him? Idk, I hope it still reads true to his core beliefs, but I also want him to be growing as a person and stepping up to his new responsibilities, which require some change in his character. Daenerys is most human with Jon, so her commanding presence and vengeful nature is subdued in their talk. It's kind of just normal couple bickering to me. But fear not, she's still dead set on conquering the world. So maybe fear, tbh. 
> 
> The Dany/Jon conversation wasn't something I planned, but halfway through the Tyrion convo, I realized that Daenerys would realistically find out about their first conversation at some point. I made that point now because it's not an obstacle I want them to have in later chapters when other things could be happening. Also, it's Jon, he can't have that hanging over them when he's trying to save her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reminding me that book!Jon exists! lol I haven't read the books in so long, it feels like a whole seperate universe to me. I'm glad you guys are enjoying the communication here, it was one of my many frustrations with the show, so I'm going hard with it.

Jon’s body feels heavy and limp, like it hasn’t been used in days, his eyelids still weighed down by the pull of sleep. The first thing he's conscious of is the small form curled into his side. His lips turn up and he takes a deep contented breath. He isn’t sure how she got there, if he pulled her to him during the night or if she moved closer on her own. If she did in knowingly or if her body just wanted to be closer to his.

He lays there, eyes still closed, preparing for the trials that the day was sure to bring. He wants to savor the brief peacefulness he feels, where he isn’t a man burdened by seven kingdoms and she isn’t the woman who gave them to him.

As he becomes more alert, his body reconnects with his mind and he takes account of how they’re positioned. His right arm lays comfortable at his side, his left is under her, holding her to him, his hand resting on her waist. Their legs are tangled together, he can feel the length of a bare thigh between his, ending with her tiny foot positioned on his calf. Her head is tucked just under his chin, and he can smell the sweet perfumes coating her hair, along with the faint scent of smoke.

For every trouble the kingdoms will have for him, every headache and every annoyance, he’ll get instances like this. For every day he spends in the company of men who think themselves great and common folk whose woes only seem to multiply, he’ll spend every night being reminded of why he does it. These moments will be his motivation, his only true happiness in a future lined with stress and worry.

He lays still a few minutes more, enjoying the pleasure of having her in his arms, when she begins tracing the top of the scar peaking out of his shirt, letting him know she’s awake. He peels his eyes open slowly, taking a deep breath and sliding his hand up, stopping just below her breast. When he finally looks down at her, her eyes are trained on her fingers, watching them move over his scar.

“We would have matched,” She says, feeling his gaze on her. “Though I doubt I would have been as fortunate as you, to be able to see it for myself.”

Her tone is void of any emotion, he isn’t sure if she’s just thinking aloud or trying to illicit a certain response from him.

“Was it painful? Being killed by men you thought you could trust?”

She’s still hurt. While he understands her pain, doesn’t blame her for it, he can’t stop the lump in his throat from forming, and hates himself for causing it.

“Yes. It was painful.” His free hand moves up to grab hers, stopping her fingers that were still mapping out the wound. She looks up at him, finally, waiting patiently for him to continue. “I am sorry, Dany. I don’t think I said it last night, but I am. I’m sorry that I almost listened to him, that I let his words affect me. I’m sorry that I almost betrayed your trust in the worst way possible.”

She surprises him by quickly pulling herself up and placing a small kiss on his lips. She lingers then, touching her forehead to his, and closes her eyes. “The man I trust most in this world and you’ve already betrayed me once and confessed to nearly killing me. What does that say about me?”

“That you’ve endured more pain than you ever should have, that the Gods themselves have tried to wage an unfair war against a dragon that they have yet to beat. I’m sorry for the part I played in it.”

“Don’t ever betray me again, Jon.”

“Never, I give you my word.”

“I suppose all I can do is take your word,” She mumbles, setting back down onto his chest, discontented with the entire situation. “Keeping you at a distance would probably be wise, if I had any advisors left they would tell me so, but I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“I’m glad, I don’t want you to push me away. And speaking as the closest thing you have to an advisor, I feel it would be unwise to do so, my Queen. It could prove disastrous to our cause,” he says in a lofty tone.

Finally, she cracks a smile, looking up at him with amusement dancing in her eyes. He’s glad he’s able to be playful with her still, that she hasn’t forgotten how to laugh. It was a pleasant surprise to him, on the boat, when he learned that the serious Dragon Queen enjoyed teasing quips as much as anyone. He had fallen even more in love with her when she showed him that part of herself. From now on, he’ll make it a point to make her laugh every day, to bring out the Dany he had met when he had knocked on her door.

She huffs out a breath and begins to pull herself away from him, an apologetic smile on her face when he reaches for her in a weak protest, “We should get up, Jon. The day will be full of hostilities and never-ending arguments, I’m sure. Best get started on it now.” She rises from the bed and wraps herself in a robe left for her on the back of a chair. She stares down at the floor, thinking hard on something before she lifts her head and asks in a quiet tone, “Would it be so terrible if took an hour or two for myself? I haven’t had a proper bath in days…since Rhaegal…Missandei. It wouldn’t be so important, but our reign begins _today_ , Jon Snow. Truly begins. I want to feel my best.”

As the unsure words are tumbling out of her mouth, he gets up to circle around the bed, gently cups her face in his hands, and stares down at her. She already looks better than she did yesterday, healthier. The circles under her eyes are less prominent, the undertones of her skin already coming back to warm her features. A bath would do wonders to her health, physical and mental. “No, it wouldn’t be terrible.” He places a kiss on her forehead, “But you also need to eat. You’re looking too thin, Dany.”

The mention of food makes her weary and discomfited, but she agrees when he promises to oversee the preparation of her meal.

As he dresses for the day, working quickly so he can see to Dany’s food, the same woman who helped her with her braids yesterday steps inside to help her begin her morning. They speak briefly before the woman walks into the attached room and begins readying the bath. Dany then goes to sit at the table at the far side of the room to wait and picks up the dagger he had put there the night before.

“Is this it?” She asks with curiosity, removing it from its sheath so she can examine it closely. He hates the way it looks in her hand, that it’s touching her at all.

“It is.” He confirms is a soft tone, swiftly strapping on his sword belt and walking over to her. He gently takes it from her hands and placing it back down on the table. “Please, Dany, I want to forget any of it ever happened. Can we please do that?”

She studies his face for a moment before nodding quietly.

“Thank you.” He places the dagger back into its sheath and exits the room, taking it with him.

\--------------

As he walks down to the kitchens, he passes through hallways that were devastated by the dragonfire and falling debris from the higher towers. Many of the walls around him are leveled and he can see out towards the city, covered in a blanket of ash. It would look beautiful, eerily peaceful, if it weren’t for the spots of flames that were still burning throughout. The fires reminded him that it couldn’t be beautiful, only terrible.

Walking past a group of Unsullied patrolling what remains of the keep, he spots Grey Worm, and quickly makes his way over to him.

“Grey Worm.” He nods when he reaches him.

“Jon Snow.” The man replies. Jon dismisses his grave tone. He knows he’d never bother to sound happy again either if he lost his love.

“How are the people? Have the Unsullied gathered all those who were injured?”

“I do not answer to you, Jon Snow. Only my Queen.” He replies curtly.

Jon will have to speak to Daenerys about her men. He admires Grey Worms devotion to her, but his commands must also be followed now if they're to rule together. Having your Master of War loyal to only one monarch could lead to unnecessary conflict. He can’t tell Grey Worm that, of course, but one word from Daenerys and the man will follow any orders from Jon without question, albeit begrudgingly.

“Very well, then. Please, carry on.” He turns to leave and make his way to the kitchens when he remembers the dagger. “Wait, Grey Worm!”

The man, already making his way back to his men, halts and turns to face Jon, annoyance clear on his face. Jon walks up to him, holding out the dagger, still in its sheath.

“If you could please...dispose of this.”

“As I said, I do not ta—”

“Please. Grey Worm.” Jon gives him a desperate look then, hoping he can see the hurt that the blade makes him feel, a hurt Grey Worm should be able to understand more than anyone else. He hopes Grey Worm understands the choice he made instead.

He does, and a look of understanding passes between the two men. He slowly takes it, looking down at it with the same disgust as Jon does. “What shall I do with it?”

“Melt it down. Throw it into the sea. Just make it disappear from the world.”

He nods, a look of determination crossing his face, and walks away.

Jon feels better, knowing that the events of yesterday, the words spoken and actions almost taken, are losing their brief hold on him. Soon, it will be like they never existed.

Having wasted some time, Jon then jogs to the kitchens to find his queen an adequate meal.

\----------

He returns to see her in the same place he left her only half an hour before, her hair currently being combed through by the Dothraki maid. She winces slightly when the woman’s brush catches on a nasty tangle. When Dany spots him, she dismisses the woman with a few words, leaving them alone.

“I thought you’d be soaking in your bath by now, love.” He says with amusement as he sets down a tray of dried cheese, bread, and fruit. “There wasn’t much to choose from I’m afraid, Cersei left the stores near empty.”

She grimaces, though he isn’t sure if it’s at the mention of Cersei or the sight of the abysmal feast he’s laid before her.

“That is quite unfortunate.” She mumbles, picking up a small piece of cheese. “I had thought we could use what was left to feed the people. The last thing we need are for the dying to be starving.”

She says it in a cold tone, as if she’s annoyed that the people need to eat. It saddens him. Not long ago, she had wanted to be a benevolent ruler.

“We have enough to ration for the time being, but we'll need more. We can discuss our options later, when we meet with Tyrion.”

“And when will that be?” She asks, unhappy at the mention of her former Hand.

“Whenever I have him brought to us.”

She smirks at him, at his matter-of-fact tone, her eyes darkening slightly. He knows she enjoys when he displays his authority, even if she’s the only person to bear witness to it.

“Will it just be us three? If we’re to talk about the future of the realm, others should be present. Other minds. Tyrion’s words no longer hold any value to me, they need to be appraised and polished by men of different perspectives, better perspectives. Ser Davos, perhaps? I know you never asked, but he was your Hand in all but name.”

Jon ponders her words. Davos should be there, but would he want to be? Unlike Jon, he’d spent the night surrounded by the wailing of woman and children, listening to the gasping last breaths of innocents succumbing to their injuries of an attack they didn’t deserve. He might hate Daenerys now. Jon could only hope Davos had enough respect for him to entertain one meeting with him and the Dragon Queen. To hear Jon’s words before he chose to turn his back on him. That’s all he could ask him to do, really.

“I’ll ask him. I’m going down there now, actually. While you’re bathing. I want to see the progress that’s been made. Help, if I can.” He leans down and kisses her deeply. She tries to deepen it, her tongue dances on his lower lip, her hand circles around his neck, but he pulls away before he becomes consumed by her. There’s no time for that now. He leans his forehead against hers, breathing in her sweet scent. “Please eat, Dany. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. Your food is safe, I promise you.”

“I know, I suppose my appetite hasn’t returned to me just yet.”

He straightens back up to leave, giving her a pointed look and then glancing at the untouched meal. She rolls her eyes and rips off a small piece of the bread to put in her mouth.

He gives her a proud smile. “Would you like me to send her back in?”

“No, she’s to return in an hour’s time. I just want to lay in the bath for a while.”

\----------

The cries of pain have returned tenfold, now that the majority of the injured have been moved to the courtyard. The Unsullied, ever efficient and effective, have the survivors’ camp running in an organized chaos. Jon can see his own men amongst the sea of tears and agony, doing as they were told under the watchful eye of Ser Davos.

Jon finds the old man at the edge of the camp. He glances at Jon before he goes back to gazing out at the people before him. “The injuries of a battle are far more painful to see when they’re on the body of a child, my Lord.”

He winces. Hearing the consequences of Daenerys’ actions is difficult. Especially after he’d spent the morning ensuring that she was healing from them. Guilt settled in his stomach, he’d briefly forgotten the other victims of the choices she’d made.

“Are things getting any better?” Jon asks quietly.

“The nearby streets have been cleared. The bodies moved outside the city. We’ll have to burn them soon, before the rotting starts. Even still, only half the city has been swept by soldiers, who knows what’s happening in the other half. But, yes, I suppose things are better than they were yesterday.” The anger peppered throughout his words is not hard to miss. “Do you have an answer, yet? What happens now?”

Jon takes a deep breath. “We stay. Help rebuild to city, restore order as best we can.”

“That would be the right thing to do, we helped bring that dragon to it's gates.”

Jon isn’t sure if he’s means Drogon or Daenerys, but he doesn’t push for clarity. “Davos, Daenerys asked me rule alongside her. And I said yes.”

He whips his head around to face Jon, disbelief evident on his weathered features. “You’re going to help her?”

“Yes, I’m going to help her. But not in the way you think. Despite was what she believes right now, her reign of terror is over,” He then pulls Davos further back towards the steps of the keep, away from the crowd. “She trusts me, heeds my council. The Daenerys who did this...that isn’t her.”

For the second time, Jon is on the receiving end of a look of pity. “Jon, I know you loved her. I understand why, she’s a beautiful woman, and her values were quite similar to your own, honorable. Hells, even I believed she was a just woman, but Jon,” he sighs, taking in the ruins around them. “We were wrong.”

“We weren’t, Davos. She’s still that woman, she’s just lost. I’ll not help her continue as she is, I’ll help her come back. I still love her, Davos. That’s why I’m doing it, aye, but I won’t apologize for it. Where is the honor in letting the woman you love drown in her sorrows without trying to pull her back to the surface?”

“Alright then, so you’ll help her. I can only assume you want my help as well?” Davos asks in a resigned tone, though it holds the determination Jon appreciates in him.

“Not with her, that’ll be my duty, and mine alone. But seeing as I now have seven kingdoms to try and rule, I could use the help of an experienced Hand.”

“And Lord Tyrion? Seems to me the Hand of the Queen should have the duties of the Hand.”

 “He will help, but he no longer holds that title,” Jon replied. “He abandoned his position the moment Sansa told him about me, forgot any faith he held in her.”

“Told him what about you?” Davos replied with piqued curiosity. “Must have been something big, for him to abandon the queen he advocated so passionately for.”

Jon freezes. _Damn,_ He thinks. _He’ll need to know, if he’s going to help us rule._ “I’ll tell you, my Lord, at the meeting we’re holding today.” He’ll wait for Dany. They’ll tell him together, as a united front. It’ll send a better message, if Davos sees firsthand that Dany doesn’t see him as a threat, doesn’t see him as anything other than Jon.

Davos nods, reluctantly accepting the answer.

“Thank you, Davos, for giving her another chance. She will get better, you’ll see. And if you still feel like she isn’t worthy of the throne, I promise I won’t ask you to continue to follow someone you don’t believe in.”

“That’s a shit promise, Jon. As much as I’m wary of her, I couldn’t be more sure of you. I won’t have a choice but to stand behind her, seeing as you two come in a pair.”

Jon gives him a thankful smile. “I’ll send for you soon, Davos. She’s preparing for the meeting now. If you could, please bring your concerns for the city, the sooner we know the severity of the devastation, the sooner we can try and remedy it. You know the people better than anyone. We’ll need a strong voice for them, preferably one that she can still listen to without complete disdain.”

“You flatter me, Jon. But yes, that I can do.” Jon couldn’t be more grateful for the man and his loyalty, his goodness. “Best take a walk around, then, see what the people are in need of the most, besides the obvious.” With that, Davos disappears back into the courtyard.

“I told you we didn’t trust your queen.”

The voice catches him by surprise. He doubts he’d ever get used to Arya sneaking up on him, but he supposed that was the point of such a talent.

He turns to face her abruptly, to put a stop to whatever tirade she was about to begin. “Aye, you told me. You didn’t trust her when we arrived at Winterfell, you didn’t trust her after she’d sacrificed half her army to protect it. You shunned her out, used her for her armies, and didn’t show a shred of gratitude for it.” The bitter taste of regret fills his mouth as he remembers he did the same thing, albiet to a smaller degree.

“We appreciated her help, Jon, bu—”

“You did a shit job of showing it. You knew I loved her, that she wasn’t just an ally to me, and you couldn’t be bothered to see why. You decided the moment she arrived in Winterfell that she was your enemy. You may not have trusted her, but didn’t you trust me? My judgement of character?”

“Of course, Jon, but you can’t deny your view of her is bias. It’s hard for a man to speak ill of a beautiful women he’s bedding. Especially if she’s given him an army. I’m sure she knows that as well.”

Her condescending tone only angers him further. “For fucks sake, Arya. I love her, not because of how she looks, not because of her armies. She arrived in Winterfell as a queen who put aside her own ambitions, a war she was losing, to help us defeat a greater threat. For me. And my own family couldn’t even extend the courtesy of kindness.”

“It doesn’t matter what we did or didn’t do, Jon. We were right not to trust her, you have to admit that now." She looks at him with resigned pity, her tone shifting to that of a mother speaking softly to a child. "You should come with me, we’ll leave the city. I know you love her, and I’m sorry it has to be this way, but you aren’t safe around her, you know that. You’re a threat to her rule, she could burn you alive in her next bout of madness and you’ll be too blinded by love to see it coming. I will kill her, if that happens.”

Jon lets out an exasperated chuckle, “You know, it amazes me how well everyone claims to know her. Even you, who couldn’t be bothered to sit down and talk to her, are an expert on Daenerys’ mind.” His tone loses what little pretense he’s holding on to, his voice growing deadly quiet. “Arya, I love you, you’re my sister. But I love her, too. I won’t tolerate your threats to her life as much as I won’t tolerate any she makes to yours. You will not touch her.”  

Arya stares at him, scrutinizing his face, making him shift uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze. “I’ll be in the city, Jon. Trying to help the children she’s orphaned and the lives she’s ruined. You can find me when you’ve come to your senses.”

She walks away from him, following Davos’ path, and Jon feels the pressure of yet another burden come down on his shoulders. Arya will either stay and support him or leave. But there will be no changing her mind about Dany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to tell where Dany is when she's only with Jon, I know that. Next chapter we'll see her interact with others, as will Jon, so that'll be a fun one to write. I'm still kind of...navigating my way to an actual plot. I have a very vague outline but I gotta fill in a lot of details. Hopefully it'll workout. As always, thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, since I don't have a clear game plan, your criticisms and concerns are super helpful. I've been trying, but if it still comes across like Jon is trying to control Daenerys, my bad. Truly not my intention. I'm not saying he won't make mistakes, but that's not how their relationship will be. She won't ever do what he says just cause he emotionally manipulates her with puppy-dog eyes. That being said, here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy!

Jon stays a bit longer, helping in any way he can. He holds a woman down as her leg was sawed away, too badly burned to do anything but spread infection to the rest of her body. He helps wrap a man’s torso in medicine-soaked cloth, though he could tell it was just a small comfort to ease his inevitable path towards death. He comforts a crying child, bruised and bloodied by rocks, looking for his mother.

He feels nothing but enormous guilt as he walks back up the steps of the keep, away from people and towards the source of their pain. He feels even guiltier still, when he increases his pace, eager to go back to her. _Will I always feel this way?_ He wonders. _Pulled between my people and my Queen?_

When he arrives back to their temporary quarters, Dany is sitting in front of the dressing table in nothing but a silk robe. She had only recently gotten out of the bath, as he could see water droplets sliding down her neck, her collarbone, and disappearing between her covered breasts. He hair was damp, hanging in waves down her back, being brushed by her handmaid.

She spots him in the mirror, her eyes going wide before she whips her head around. “Is that blood?”

He looks down at himself, equally surprised when he sees the spots darkening his gambeson. “It is. I did what I could, though it might have been in vain. I’m sure half the people I helped will succumb to their injuries by nightfall. All I could do was ease their pain, even if was only a little.”

It feels wrong, telling her this, trying to pull the remorse from her, but it’s all true. He isn’t lying to her, isn’t exaggerating. As much as he wants to keep her safe from the evils of the world, he wants to take her outside and make her see.

He looks back up at her, and her expression is unreadable, though she’s staring intently at the blood covering him. _It’s better than nothing._

“Did you eat?” He changes the subject. He doesn't want to linger on it and give her an opportunity to justify it. It would be best to reveal the reality of her actions in pieces, let her sit with it.  

She glances back up, blinking quickly, as if she’s coming out of a trance. “What?” She asks in a dazed tone.

“Did you eat? You’ll need your strength today.”

She rolls her eyes, then. “Don’t worry about me, Jon. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”

She didn’t answer his question, he noticed, but she seems better, so he drops it for the time being.  

He walks up to her and she waves the woman away, softly telling her something in Dothraki, before the woman nods and leaves the room.

“Where is she going now?”

“To find me something to wear, most of my things are on Dragonstone but I had a few dresses and pants brought with the riders.” She rises to walk over to him, and Jon can ignore the hot lust that fills him. The robe does little to hide her from him. The thin, delicate, fabric clings to her form. It takes all his strength to stop his eyes from trailing past her chest. Instead, he moves his eyes back up to her face, though he doesn’t fare much better. Her skin is clear, tinged pink from her bath. Her lips had regained their alluring shade of red, inviting him to kiss her. Her eyes are bright, alive, a stark contrast to the distant and muted fire he had seen in recent days, and in them he saw the same lust that was currently dominating his thoughts. Her beauty will never lose its effect on him, its ability to stop his breath and make him wish time stood still so he could gaze at her for a thousand years.

He could kiss her now, but nothing would stop him from pushing the flimsy robe from her shoulders and pulling her to the bed just behind them. So, he takes a step back, clearing his throat and forcing himself to think of anything but image in front of him.

“I should get cleaned up, I don’t want to get you dirty.” He says, his voice strained.

She gives him an odd look, before averting her eyes from his and turning back to sit at the table.

“I should be ready within the hour, I just need to dress, really. When Merri returns my hair will be dried enough to fashion into some sort of braid.”

The dismissal is clear in her voice and he’s unsure what he’s done to earn it. He walks up behind her, moves her hair from her shoulder, and places a small kiss there, his eyes never leaving her face in the mirror in front of them. “I suppose I’ll get cleaned up quickly, then, I can’t be looking like a common soldier next to an immaculate Queen.”

A small smile graces her lips. “No, that won’t do.”

\---------------

When he returns almost an hour later, having changed out of his bloodied clothes and broken his fast on a quick meal of bread and cheese, he’s equal parts saddened and amazed at the woman before him.

It’s not Dany standing in front of him, it’s Daenerys Targaryen, the conqueror. The woman who burned down the city. Her soft silver hair has been pulled away from her face, forming a crown of intricate and immovable braids at the back of her head. She’s forgone the delicate fabrics that softened her edges, and now donned a leather overcoat with rigid lines at the shoulders and sleeves that flare out at the ends. It’s similar to the one she had worn previously, though somehow blacker and more imposing. The structure of it accentuates her curves, hugging her waist and flaring out at her hips. Underneath, she’s wearing her usual black leather pants and boots. A deep red runs along the inside of her sleeves, matching the cape draped over her right shoulder, her Targaryen heritage proudly on display. She truly looked like the Dragon Queen, untouchable and dangerous, though he wants to fall on his knees and devote his life to her all the same.

“Where are we meeting?” She asks, all the warmth in her voice gone. She isn’t angry though, her tone is regal, leaving no room for question or doubt.

“There’s a courtyard, just outside this wing of the castle. It’s mostly intact, enough space to walk in, the debris around it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve had the table cleaned off and a map prepared.” He tries to match her tone, not only to be prepared for the meeting to decide the future of Westeros, but so he wouldn’t be invisible next to her commanding presence. He manages well enough, it seems, as she looks at him with pride, appreciating his efforts.

“Shall we begin?” She asks with her chin tilted up, challenging him to measure up.

“Aye, my Queen.” He replies, accepting her challenge, holding his arm out to her.

Instead of taking it she walks past him, smirking, and exits the room, leaving him to catch up.

When they arrive at the makeshift council room, she takes her spot at the head of the table, before looking at him expectantly, and Jon hesitates. _Do I take the seat next to her?_ If he did that, he would always look to her, it would be natural for him to fall into the place of a secondary ruler. She could easily forget he was there, looking only forward at her world, unopposed, untethered to anything. _Or do I sit at the other end, across from her?_ Doing so would ensure that she would always meet his eye, always see his words, even if she didn’t want to.

He walks slowly to the table, running his eyes along the map of Westeros, looking at all the land he was now responsible for, thinking of all the people he now had to protect, perhaps even from her. When he reaches his spot, holding dominion over the Northern side, he looks up, meeting her gaze across the table. There’s a playful defiance dancing in her eyes, but more notably, there is relief. _It was a test._ He realizes. She had pleaded with him to rule with her, begged him to never let her be alone. _I’ll be right here with you, love,_ he thinks. Whenever she looked up from her kingdoms, she would never find emptiness in front of her, she would see him, ready to share her burdens and her triumphs.

“Ser Davos?”

“He should be arriving shortly, I sent for him on my way back.”

She acknowledges his words with a soft hum. “And Tyrion?”

“We can have him brought here now.”

She breaks their eye contact, turning her head to speak to one Unsullied guard stationed just to the right of her. It’s an order, he can understand that much, and the guard briskly walks away, presumably to get their hostage advisor.

“Grey Worm should join us.” Jon says abruptly.

“Why would my Master of War need to help decide the future of the realm? He hears my orders and he follows them.” She answers back. The challenge is her voice is no longer playful. 

“ _Our_ Master of War,” Jon gently corrects her.

She eyes him suspiciously, but before she can say anything in return, Davos arrives.

“Your Grace.” He nods at Daenerys with the controlled respect he’d had perfected when talking to anyone of a higher status. He turns to Jon next, “You Grace.” It’s a world’s difference, the way he addresses Jon, not only is the respect in his tone evident, natural, there also lies a hint of fatherly pride.

Daenerys notices too, as her hands, which had been resting with comfortable ease on the table, shift down to her sides, fingers flexing into balls. Jon looks up to catch her attention but she’s avoiding him, eyes shifting from the table below her to the walls behind him. He sees her throat contract, swallowing whatever she wants to say on impulse. Whether her response is that of anger or a self-conscious discomfort, he couldn’t say. But he focused on her, hoping that she could feel his gaze, his assurance that he was there.

Davos senses the tension in the room and quickly moves to his place at the table, to Jon’s right.

They stand there, not a word spoken between them. Just when the silence reaches the point of unbearable, they hear the distinct sound of chains scraping against the ground. Soon after, Tyrion arrives, escorted by Grey Worm and a few of his men.

Right away, Jon knows this meeting will be difficult. Tyrion is strolling to them in casual arrogance, as if his hands and feet weren’t bound. The little man has a plan, he wouldn’t be so calm if he didn’t. And he wouldn’t be so self-assured if that plan wasn’t sure to irritate Daenerys.

“ _Breaker of Chains_ , is it?” He asks as he nears the table, holding up his wrists. “Was this really necessary, Your Grace? I’m sure even you could physically stop me from harming you.”

“No, it wasn’t _necessary_ at all.” She answers back coolly, not even sparing a glance in his direction.

It wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for, Jon could tell, and Tyrion walked the rest of the way to the table in silence. Intelligently, and to Jon’s great relief, he doesn’t presume to take the place at Daenerys’ right, the place of the Hand. He settles himself a bit further to the middle, between she and Jon.

Grey Worm moves to distance himself from the table, to take his post nearby at a partially collapsed column. Jon wanted to call out to him, ask him to join the meeting but he thinks better of it. He had only just mentioned it to Daenerys, he didn’t want to have a public disagreement with her if she told Grey Worm to ignore Jon’s request. Instead, he looks to her, thankful that her eyes are on him. He gives the slightest nod in Grey Worm’s direction. The choice is hers alone, until they’re able to discuss it further in private and come to an agreement.

Daenerys holds his gaze for a moment, her eyes unreadable, before she turns to the Master of War, “Grey Worm, please stay. You’ll need to know our plans as much as Ser Davos.” The stoic man nods, before stepping around the table to stand near Davos and glares intently at Tyrion.

To show his appreciation, Jon offers her a small smile, and his anxiety eases when she gives him one in return.

For a moment everything is still, the men around the table showing varying amounts of discomfort, while Daenerys remain the picture of calm. At seeing her confidence, Jon swallows his nerves and tries to match it. _I need to reassure myself as much as I do her._ He’s hoping this meeting would make his position clearer, both to himself and everyone else. Tyrion’s words invade his mind once again, _What if I’m too weak for her? What if I can’t match her fire? This meeting will be the first real test of that._ Strangely enough, those thoughts drive away his nerves completely. _I will not fail her again._

“Thank you for coming, Ser Davos. I know Jon values your council and in turn, so do I.” The warmth coating her words is nothing more than a courtesy, but Jon is glad she’s taken this approach to the meeting, rather than her other, more aggressive options.

“Of course, You Grace, I want to see this city restored as much as he does, I was very pleased and humbled to be invited to this meeting.” Davos is facing her, though his head is ducked, not meeting her eyes. He isn’t one to cower, so Jon can only assume he’s avoiding the temptation to confront her for the horrors she’s caused.

“Yes, the restoration of King's Landing is a priority for us. As are the people of King's Landing. We’ll need to find away to rebuild the city, at least a section of it, so that the people may resume their lives as best they can. We can discuss our options shortly.” The way she’s speaking, it’s like she’s forgotten she’s the reason the city needs rebuilding and the people need rehousing. Or she doesn’t care. Admittedly, it irks Jon. He wants so badly for her to show remorse, to feel ashamed of her actions.

Her tone doesn’t have a positive effect on Davos either, as he glances at Jon in exasperation. It was probably a mistake to mislead Davos into believing Daenerys was sorry for what she’d done, that she was rushing to make things right. The casual tone in her voice most likely squandered that belief quickly. But it got him here, and Jon hopes that her ability to listen to reason was enough to keep him.

“Grey Worm, as Master of War, you’ll need to know our plans moving forward. As of now, though, it appears the fighting is over,” she says, glancing at Jon. “Instead, we’ll need to discuss how best to distribute the men amongst the city and find tasks to keep them busy. Idle soldiers won’t do well in a city of vulnerable people.”

At her brief pause, Jon chimes in, finding his place in the distribution of orders. “The Northmen as well. As Master of War and Commander of the Queens armies, the Northman currently in the city are now under your care and command, Grey Worm. I’ll be speaking with them shortly, they’ll know to follow your orders. Please confer with Ser Davos if you have any trouble.”

Grey Worm quickly turns to Daenerys, waiting for her permission to either accept of refuse Jon’s words, and she gives him a quick nod. With his Queens approval given, Grey Worm turns back to Jon and accepts his command, “Your men will be taken care off.”

The whole exchange, while somewhat comical, is exactly why Jon wants his position made clear. Deferring to Daenerys will only weaken his position in the eyes of their advisors. Challenging her would weaken her position in her own. It’s a balance that’ll be near impossible to find when her she and him aren’t on the same page. _We should have spoken before this._ He curses himself. If they had spoken beforehand, he wouldn’t feel so hesitant now.

“Well, now that that’s settled, Your Grace, I would just to clear somethings up. Understand some things, if I may.” The sound of Tyrion’s voice causes Daenerys’ calm façade to shift into that of barely controlled annoyance.

“You aren’t here to understand things. You’re here to give us your council, as little value as it holds to me.” Her tone is dismissing, yet Tyrion continues in his curious and nonchalant tone.

“You see, Your Grace, that’s what I’m not quite understanding. My words mean nothing to you, I’ve committed treason, and yet haven’t had me killed. You’ve brought me here so I can give you council. Why is that?”

She takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring slightly, and gives him a curt response. “Believe me, I would love nothing more than to let Drogon have you. You’re alive because Jon wants you alive.”

“So, it’s true, then? You’ve asked him to rule alongside you? I’ll admit, I thought you’d have him killed. I admire your restraint, Your Grace. I didn’t think you could be so rational.”

“Tyrion, ple—” Jon starts, before things can escalate.

“Unfortunately for me, this seems to be a new trend for you, rationality. I was hoping I would be killed quickly. Need I remind you, Your Grace, that I freed my brother? I told him to escape to Essos with Cersei. Surely tha--”

“That’s enough, Tyrion!” The power in Jon’s voice surprises the man, making him jump slightly and look in Jon’s direction with widened eyes.

“Yes, I know you helped your brother escape. That’s why you’re in chains. But in turn, your brother had the courtesy of dying beneath the Red Keep, with your sister, no less. Can I assume you told him it was a way out? I should thank you, I suppose. Without your stupidity, they could both possibly still be alive. You saved me the trouble of going through the motions of a trial.” Her tone is cold, biting, and when she sees her words have their desired effect, she smirks.

Tyrion lowers his head, whether to get ahold of his anger or his grief, Jon does not care. The purpose of this meeting was to talk about Westeros, not for Tyrion to try and get himself killed.

“Your Grace, if I may?” He addresses Daenerys first, making sure his attempt to drive this meeting in the right direction isn’t met with hostility. She tears her eyes away from Tyrion, her smirk fading, and her regal mask naturally falls into place. She gives him the slightest nod. Her encouragement is enough to keep his confidence, and he addresses the table with a resolute and strong voice.

“We aren’t here to argue about what’s been done. Kings Landing is our focus, hundreds of thousands of people are homeless, injured, and dying. As much as we need to rebuild the city, we can’t do anything when it’s littered with beggers and the dead. The work we’re doing now, it isn’t sustainable. We need to find a long-term plan.” As much as he hates ruling, giving orders always comes naturally to him. Telling people what needs to be done and having the power to see it through makes him feel like his worth is greater than he often suspects. “Tyrion, I told you yesterday what needed to be done. And you’ve had nothing but time to think on my words. So, tell me, what of the greater houses of Westeros?”

Tyrion sighs loudly in defeat, realizing his antics are useless. “As much as I don’t what to repeat myself, I really need to understand some things. When you say you and the Queen will rule together, I need to know what that entails. I need to know what _you_ plan do to, moving forward. Only with that can I offer you good council.”

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to understand, Jon and I will rule together. What that entails, is that he and I will make any and all decisions regarding the realm and anything beyond that.” She’s annoyed again, the tautness in her voice hard to miss.

“Right, of course, and if you two should come to a disagreement? I don’t imagine you’ll stand down, you aren’t one for compromise.”

“Perhaps you’ve just never given any view worthy of compromising for.”

“Okay, fine, so you two rule together, make decisions together. Is this realm to be ruled from the bedroom then? There are worse ways to rule, I suppose...you’ve shown me that.”

“Tyrion! As I’ve said, that’s enough. She is the Queen and you will treat her with respect.” He intercedes before the spiteful jabs become dangerous. _It seems like my role in this meeting will also consist of a moderator._

“My apologies, _Your Grace_ ,” His tone is mocking, and Jon already knows he’s about to be talked down to by the man. “So, seeing as how you’re the rightful heir to the throne, will you be taking the name _Aegon Targaryen?”_ At this, Davos whips his head up to stare at Jon, eyes wide. “Or will you rule with a bastard’s name? Or, should I ask the Queen? Would she be willing to share her throne with someone who will always have a greater claim than her?” At this, Tyrion turns his head to face Daenerys, meeting her fiery gaze with a respectable determination.

“Perhaps, if you had asked _the Queen_ immediately after you had found out, you would have known. Jon’s claim was only a threat to mine when we had people we trusted working against us. That isn’t the case now.” As she was addressing Tyrion, her eyes were on Jon, perhaps trying to make him understand as well. “Whether he rules as Aegon Targaryen or Jon Snow is irrelevant, the truth will be out in time, I’m sure Varys saw to that.”

“So, what’ll it be then, Aegon or Jon? How do you want to proceed?”

Selfishly, he wants her to make the choice for him. With everything that's happened, his parentage had little place in his thoughts because Dany is his only focus. He hadn’t had time to truly sit with the revelation since Sam told him. The only parts he had zeroed in on were that Ned Stark was never his father, Lyanna Stark was his mother, and Daenerys was his aunt. Anything outside of that was obstacle he’d had yet to cross. If he was being truthful, he was still trying to come to terms with the first few. Choosing between a name that was a lie he had grown up believing, one that followed him and shaped him, and one that disproved all of it wasn’t something he was eager to do.

His hope was dashed when he saw everyone looking at him expectantly, including Daenerys. Her eyes were softer, patient, as if she can hear his internal struggle. He knows then that she would be okay with whatever he chose.

He still doesn't know. “What would be best? If I chose Aegon, would the noble houses be less likely to cause trouble?”

“It’s hard to say, really. A Targaryen did just slaughter a city.” Jon could hear Daenerys’ sharp exhale at his words. “But people are less likely to laugh off the claim of a trueborn than that of a bastard, even if he is tied to a Mad Queen.”

“I am not a ma—”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe you are or aren’t, Your Grace, people will see you as such. You need to keep that in mind.” They’ve both grown increasingly impatient with each other, but Jon is thankful she’s willing to argue with Tyrion rather than have him killed on the spot every time he opens his mouth. “How will you two be ruling together, anyway? As King and Queen? Co-rulers, maybe?”

“And what exactly is the difference?” Jon can’t but smirk a little at her irritated tone and the slight roll of her eyes.

“Well, as King and Queen, you two will have to wed, keep with tradition and all that. As co-rulers, however, a marriage wouldn’t be necessary.”

“That’s not how monarchy wor—”

“Well, you wanted to break the wheel, did you not? You’ve taken the throne, you have the power to change the rules. If you want monarchy to work a new way, you can make it happen.”

She’s intrigued by his words, she gets a look in her eyes, the same look she had in the throne room. “And long-term? What would work best?” Jon can’t stop the hurt that knocks against his chest.

Marriage had never been at the forefront of his mind with her, what they had between them had always felt like more than a marriage. It felt like fate, like something that was always meant to happen and then it would just be, until the end of their days. Perhaps he should have said something before, asked her to be his wife, to share their lives together in a more recognized way. Now, it was another possibility dangling before him and he had to wait and see if it would be snatched away completely because he never asked. It was just another thing he should have done differently, another thing he would regret not doing.

Tyrion, surprised that her tone had shifted to something other than angered annoyance, answered her with some control over his anger towards her. “Well, I can’t tell you, because right now I truthfully don’t know. There is some merit to being wed, of course, the obvious being that husband and wife can’t go to war with one another. Your union, your vision of co-ruling, would be more stable. Stability is sure to appeal to the larger houses. However, let’s say your plan to bring Westeros to heel isn’t as smooth as you want it to be, if both of you aren’t already bound to each other, marriage alliances could prove to be useful.” He looks at Jon, the upwards inflection at the end of his words, along with his sly smile, let him know that he’s purposefully bringing this up to hurt him. _He’s trying to punish me because I didn’t listen. He wants me as miserable as possible._

“So, there would be _more_ monarchs? That doesn’t exactly co-exist with stability, Tyrion.” Jon can’t keep the anger from his voice, he only prays his desperation to kill this plan in its infancy isn’t noticeable.

“No, as I’ve mentioned to Her Grace, the wheel is broken, you make the rules now. Any future spouses of yours won’t hold any power if you don’t want them to.”

Jon looks to Daenerys then, trying to hold in the panic in his eyes, trying to suppress any pain he might feel if he sees that she’s considering his words.

Relief floods him as he sees her distaste for the suggestion. “No. That’s quite a stupid idea, Tyrion, even for you. There won’t be any need for marriage alliances because we don’t _need_ alliances. We’ve won. The Seven Kingdoms are ours. Any house unwilling to recognize that won’t be met with compromise or attempts to coax them onto our side, they will simply cease to exist.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but long-term? You plan to continue your reign over in Essos, yes? You’ll need armies for that, people willing to fight for you. Getting Westerosi men to sail across the Narrow Sea will take more than striking fear into them. Men are more willing to fight for the wife of their Lord rather than a Queen who lives hundreds of leagues away. It would be a long and difficult fight to rally all the men in all the kingdoms into one army. And there would be more casualties than it’s worth.”

“My Lord,” Davos starts, glancing at Jon, seeing his inner turmoil over the idea. “What armies are needed to be taken through marriage? The Ironborn are commanded by Yara Greyjoy, the Queen’s ally. She named Gendry the Lord of Storm’s End, his armies are hers. If I’m not mistaken, the new Prince of Dorne has already declared for her. If Jon is to be King, the North should rally behind him, you as well, Your Grace, seeing as how you fought for them.” He couldn’t be more grateful for the man, grateful for his willingness to fight for him and a Queen who has yet to win him over.

“The North might not be that easy, My Lord. Northern loyalty is as unpredictable as the wind and their gratitude is fleeting.” Daenerys responds quietly, disdain and sadness in her voice. Her brief time at Winterfell would only ever give her memories of loss and loneliness. “But you’re right, we have armies. The Lord of Casterly Rock is our prisoner, the Westerlands armies will always be ours. We’ll need to name a new Lord of Highgarden, someone loyal, and we’ll have the Reach.”

“And the Vale? The Riverlands? I’m afraid Robin Arryn is quite loyal to his cousin Sansa and Edmure Tully will be hard to win over with his niece whispering in his ear. Perhaps a marria—” The eagerness in Tyrion’s voice is vexing, Jon can’t help but interrupt.

“Robin Arryn is a boy and Edmure Tully is married, don’t you recall his wedding?” His temper is hanging on by a thread now, but Tyrion’s insistence on continuing to argue for this exhausting plan of his angers Jon more than it should. _This is politics. Both of us are pawns to be played, as much as I hate it._ “Marriage alliances are not on the table, Tyrion. Leave it be. If you can’t offer any better ideas than this perhaps it would be better to just let you rot in a cell.”

“My apologies, I just want you to make you aware of all your options.”

“Well now we’re aware of that one, move on.”

“Alright. Well a marriage between the two of you seems to be the only remaining option. You know, stability. But the issue with that, you see, will be the matter of succession.” When she realizes where Tyrion is leading the conversation, her eyes rush up to meet his, and he can see the pain threatening to spill over. He wants nothing more than to end Tyrion now, to hell with his council, it’s worth nothing if all it brings her is pain. “Your Grace, you have the throne. You wear the crown. Succession should be important to you.” His tone is gentler than Jon imagined it would be, but at least he has the courtesy to address her with empathetic kindness when discussing the subject he knows troubles her greatly, even when he no longer champions her.

“What should be done, then?” The confidence that she began the meeting with, the fierceness, the power, its all been diminished. The Dragon Queen did not ask the question, Dany did. Jon resists the urge to end the meeting now just so he can go to her, hold her, remind her that she’s not alone.

“Well…marriages aren’t always a prerequisite to having children, and your line could still continue through Jon if—”

“No.” He won’t entertain that idea. He won’t her entertain that idea. “No, the matter of succession is not important right now. King's Landing is. The people. We aren’t going to discuss what come after until what comes now is discussed, planned, and well underway. The realm doesn’t need an heir, it needs monarchs who can rule _now._ ”

“Jon, perhaps it would be wise to plan ahea—”

“Daenerys, no. We are here to discuss our immediate problems. As you and Davos have said, many of the great houses have already backed us, we’ll need to utilize them and their resources to help the people. _We need to discuss that._ As Tyrion has pointed out, Sansa may be an issue moving forward, distancing her from Robin Arryn and Edmure Tully is probably the next step. _We need to discuss that_. Kings Landing is in ruins, the majority of its people are dying, injured, homeless, or already dead. We can’t keep them in a pile of rocks and expect them to prosper, they need to be housed somehow. _We need to discuss that_. Nothing else matters right now.” He takes a deep breath, unaware that his voice had risen. He looks down for a moment and closes his eyes, trying to control all the emotions he’s feeling. When he looks back up, even Grey Worm seems surprised at his outburst, though Jon can see that he respect his words.

His eyes meet Dany’s and it’s apparent that whatever he’s feeling now, she feels ten times greater. Anger, insecurity, worry, they all flash through her eyes, but their constant companion is grief. He knows she won’t be able to forget it, but it would be best talked about between the two of them. They hold the stare, allowing themselves the briefest respite from the burdens of ruling, and focus only on each other. He could never convey all that he feels for her in a single glance, but he hopes that it brings her some comfort.

Moments later, whatever she’s feeling vacates her eyes, her face, and he knows she’s ready to continue.

“You asked me to let you deal with Sansa, should she become a problem, but we need to _prevent_ that from happening. I want to be able to trust you with this, grant you the mercy of sparing your family anymore heartache but as I said before, you don’t know you sister.” For the first time her anger is directed at Jon, his foolish naivety. This time though, he isn’t panicked about her oncoming threat, he prepares to fight it and narrows his eyes at her. “We will give her one chance at peace. We’ll send a raven, inform her that the Seven Kingdoms are ours _, all_ Seven. For you, I will name her Wardeness of the North. She may be hateful and arrogant, but she’s intelligent. She’s more than capable of running a Kingdom, but she will do so in the name of House Targaryen. If she refuses…” She doesn’t need to finish, everyone at the table knows the threat that follows.

“If she refuses, I will deal with her, as I told you. But one chance won’t be enough, and you know that. You’re setting up her execution. Perhaps she won’t listen to words brought by a raven but she may listen to the words of her brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, in person.” It’s the first time he’s addressed himself as such. He dreads the title, what it means, and so he’s slightly surprised when he feels a rise in his own self-respect when he says it. To be her counterpart, to be able to challenge her and refute her, all while being able to pull her close at the end of the day and just enjoy her presence, is perhaps a greater honor than he’s allowed himself to believe. _Maybe I can find some joy in this, when she fully returns to me._ “If she refuses the initial offer, I will make an appeal. If that does not work, she will be stripped of any power she has, before any treasons can occur. Any attempts on her end after that, well…I won’t fight you. But patience is key, Daenerys. We have to allow her, and the other lords and ladies, a fair opportunity to adjust. There may be missteps on their end, and they will be dealt with, but ending families outright just because they may be wary or unenthusiastic in their support, it’s not right and it’s not smart.”

His words have angered her, he can tell right away. This was the first instance he had challenged her vision, her plan, so aggressively. Yes, he had been disapproving of it before, but he hadn’t rejected as strongly as he just did. Once again, their eyes meet and the rest of the room blurs, though this time there is no room for vulnerability. She’s staring him down, a fire in her eyes, but he won’t back down, and returns the gaze with an equal force, or so he hopes.

Davos, with his uncanny ability to alleviate mounting levels of tension, interrupts their standoff with a question. “King’s Landing, Your Graces, how do you suppose we tackle this feat?”

Still not looking away, he answers the question. “We can’t rebuild the city while the people are here. We need to move them. There is some room outside the city gates to establish a small camp, but it’s not nearly enough. We could vacate the city completely, it will take weeks to clean up and even longer to rebuild, having to work around the common folk would only prolong the process.”

“Where would we move them, Your Grace?” Jon finally turns his head to speak directly to Davos, the man’s concern for the people deserves his full attention.

“I’m not sure, to be quite honest. Many of them are too weak to make a long journey, it’ll have to be somewhere close, perhaps just an empty piece of land to establish a temporary city?”

“A tent city, open wounds, and people unused to camping is a breeding ground of sickness.” Tyrion states, for the first time expressing genuine interest in the conflict at hand. “Maybe we can relocate them to an actual city, what’s the nearest? Duskendale?”

“Duskendale is too far, many can’t make the journey.” Davos replies.

“They can stop along the way, the journey doesn’t have to be made in one go, but it has to be made.” Jon responds.

“And who will oversee the journey? How will we feed them? We’ll need masters, healers, and an abundance of medicines to keep infection away. We’ll need a large portion of your armies to keep the peace, protect them. All of this takes resources we don’t have at hand. You’ll need to establish a small council soon, to sort out the logistics.” Tyrion is proving himself to be more useful than Jon had initially thought.

“We’ll need to consider our options then, have a shortlist of people to consider.” Davos responds.

“Even still, Duskendale is only a port city, too small to house everyone. We don’t know how long the rebuild will take. It’s not a long-term solution.” Tyrion says, though mostly to himself.

“Dragonstone.” Jon responds quietly.  “We can have Yara ferry the people to Dragonstone when they’re strong enough to make the journey on water. The Greyjoy fleet is depleted, but it should be enough. Perhaps some will want to stay, move to other parts of Westeros.”

“Dragonstone only holds a castle, Your Grace, is that where you intend to house people?” Tyrion asks.

“No, but there is empty land, we can build something more permanent than tents.”

“So we abandon the city?” Daenerys responds, her voice flat. “I conquered the city, took the throne, and you expect me to just abandon it?”

“Why would we stay, Daenerys? There is nothing to rule over. Abandoning the city is not abandoning the crown. We can stay if you want, oversee the rebuilding, but the people won’t be here.” Jon’s tone is gentle, not wanting her to think the sacrifices she’d made along the way were in vain. “Even still, we won’t be leaving anytime soon. People can barely make the journey to the gates. We’ll be here a while yet.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, instead she continues the discussion, “What we’re doing now, do we continue that, then?”

“It’s all we can do at the moment, Your Grace,” Davos replies. “We have a plan, tentative as it may be, but we have it. We’ll need to take steps to fill in the gaps and to do that we need more five people around this table.”

Daenerys nods. “Then we need to send ravens immediately. I’ll need those who’ve declared themselves my ally to prove themselves loyal, come swear fealty and freely offer whatever they can.” She meets Jon’s eye then, directing her next words to him alone. “The North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, will be given the same opportunity. Invite Robin Arryn and Edmure Tully to the capital, we can appeal to them in person. Your sister will be yours to deal with, however you see fit.”   

He nods once in her direction, before turning to his left. “Tyrion, you’ll see to it, the ravens.”

“Ser Davos will oversee, Jon and I will read them.” She says in warning, glaring at the man, hating the trust given to him by Jon. “You’ll have two days to get them all written. In the meantime, I’ll go down into the city, meet the peo—”

“No.” Jon can’t help but interrupt her. “It’s not a good idea. You’ve just destroyed their livelihoods, killed people they know, their husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, their _children._ Not only are they fearful, they’re probably angry, they won’t respond well to your presence. No, you should stay here for the time being.”

She narrows her eye at him, “It doesn’t matter what they feel, they’re my people now. I _will_ see them.” She’s already made up her mind, her tone making it clear that arguing is unwise.  

Still, he tries. “Daenerys, it would be best if—”

“No, I will go down to the city, I will see to my armies and my people. You will not keep me here in this castle while you and everyone else do my job for me.” Her words are cold, cutting, final. “Grey Worm, take Tyrion back to his rooms and then meet me back here. I’ll go with you into the city, you can tell me what’s been done, we'll discuss where change can be made.” She’s not giving anyone the opportunity to protest, obviously cutting the meeting short. “Ser Davos, I trust you to continue your efforts, whatever resources you need will be provided for you. If you find we’re lacking in anything, write it down, we’ll need to know exactly what our allies must supply us with. Tomorrow, please plan to join Tyrion in writing his letters, see to it that he isn’t committing treason right under our noses. He’s done it before, after all, we’ll need to be cautious.”

“And me, _Your Grace_?” He can’t hide the bite in his words, as petty as it feels.

She turns to him and the only thing he sees in her face is anger. “You can do whatever you want. I would never presume to keep you locked away.” With that, she nods once towards Grey Worm and leaves the table, officially ending the meeting.

Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Seven hells, it was going well._ He can hear Grey Worm making his way around the table, giving orders to his men to escort Tyrion away.

“Your Grace, for what its worth, I don’t think she’s on her way to mount Drogon and terrorize the city, I’d say that’s a win.” Tyrion’s smug words almost push him over the edge, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to convince himself not to strike the man. He had hoped Tyrion would see how well they worked together, that it was possible, but her last words had made it clear that she still has the power to overrule him when she wants.

“Come, traitor, or I will drag you.” Grey Worm doesn’t hold back his hatred for the man, he probably wanted nothing more than to run his spear through him.

With that, Jon can here the sound of chains on the ground once again, and he keeps his eyes closed until he knows they’re gone from the room.

When he opens his eyes, Davos is watching him. “Come with me, Your Grace. We could use the help.” Jon gives him a resigned nod. Davos put one hand on Jon’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Hey, lad, you did good today. You’re right, she listens to you. But keep in mind that she’s just as stubborn, you’re bound to butt heads, disagree. And I apologize if I’m overstepping, but it wasn’t the best idea to give her an order like that. She’s earned her power, the respect she’s given, it’s not right for the man she loves to disregard that, even if it’s unintentional.”

“Davos, I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know that, you still went about it the wrong way.” He gives Jon’s shoulder a firm slap. “Let’s head back to the city, you can tell me all about your royal background, _Aegon Targaryen._ ” Davos gives him a pointed look, and Jon humors his efforts and pushes himself away from the table, swallowing his anger and his hurt, storing them away to deal with later.

Part of him wants to stay, wait for her, but they’re both angry. He knows it would be wiser to keep his distance for the day, keep busy. _We’ll talk later tonight, truly talk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, politics and planning a restoration of a city are not my string suits, I've really just made it all up. I don't know if what they're doing is the smartest decision, but humor me. It'll probably work cause it's my fictional story :). I might gloss over a lot of the details, because the focus of this story is Jon and Daenerys. Time jumps will probably start happening, writing it hour by hour will make this fic move at a snails pace. Also, a Daenerys chapter? let me me know if you guys are interested. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done! Okay this was really fun to write, I hope you guys enjoy! More notes at the bottom :) I may edit this later on, nothing major, but I just wanted to get what I had published. Who knows, I might delete some stuff, add other stuff.

Daenerys hears the Unsullied behind her, escorting her to their rooms, trying to keep up with her quick pace. There are couple men in front of her, almost running to look past every corner before she passes it. She’s thankful for their vigilance, she worries every moment could be her last, that some skilled assassin would be able to sneak past her Queensguard and put a dagger in her heart. _It doesn’t have to be an assassin, it could be someone you trust, someone you love._

The thought only adds to the swirl of emotions threatening to spill over and when she finally reaches the door of the chambers, she can’t help but slam it shut behind her, leaving her men in the hallway. She leans against the door and takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She hears a noise in the room and whips her head up, panicked. Relief floods through her when she sees that one of her men had managed to make it into the door before she had and swept the room for intruders. _Ever vigilant._

She reaches for the knob behind her, softly asking him to leave her alone.

“Yes, my Queen.” He answers, politely stepping around her. After he leaves, she shuts the door and her body slumps over, exhausted.

Daenerys sinks to the cold stones beneath her, pulling her knees up and resting her elbows on them. She leans her head back onto the hard wood behind her and closes her eyes, trying to push her rage down so she can hear her own thoughts.  

As if it knows her walls are unmanned, that there are no watchful eyes around her, the familiar lump returns to her throat, shortly followed by a small sting in her eyes, the tears making themselves known, threating to squeeze out between her closed lids.

She doesn’t know why they’re here to bother her again, the uncomfortable lump, the tears, or maybe she does. They come to her when she’s alone, when she’s most vulnerable to them. It would be so easy to give in to what they want. _Perhaps I should._ She briefly thinks. Still, when her mind begins to flash through the events responsible, there are so many now, she refuses to linger on any of them, won’t let them form clearly in her mind. _If I give in, they would consume me, incapacitate me. I don’t know if I’d ever escape their grip. I wouldn’t be able to rule, to conquer._

Instead she does what’s become a habit. She swallows the lump, forcing it back down her throat. She keeps her eyes closed until she knows the tears won’t spill over. When the memories are successfully locked away, however weak their prison may be, she knows it’s safe to open her eyes.

The only thing left to feel now is the anger. _Why did he say that?_ She wonders. Her mind offers up a few possibilities. Perhaps he was worried for her safety, he did say the people were angry, maybe he didn’t want her to get hurt. Maybe he was worried for their safety, the idea does wound her a little. She wouldn’t harm the city folk needlessly, they're her people now. So long as they're loyal, they have nothing to fear.

Another, darker possibility dances into her mind, _maybe he wants everything for himself._ Maybe he wanted to keep her locked away in the keep, take the credit for her armies’ work, take the love of the people for himself. Maybe he wants to leave her in the city of ruins and rule from Dragonstone.

Instantly, she pushes the thought away, cursing herself for thinking that of him. He loves her, she knows. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. She’d asked him to rule with her, to build a new, better world with her, _together_ , and he’d agreed. The relief she’d felt, the overwhelming joy that had filled her chest when he had pulled her lip to his, it nearly moved her to tears. He had kissed her like he used to, before everything they had was ruined, taken away by the people closest to them. He looked at her like he used to, like she was just Dany, his Dany. _And he very nearly plunged a knife in my heart._ She curses herself again.

The darker parts of her mind don’t let her feel happiness for long. As much as she hates her invasive thoughts, she appreciates them. They remind her that she can’t let her guard down anymore, she can’t let the things that make her happy be known to the world, or they’ll be taken away. No, it’s better to think this way, it protects her.

He didn’t kill her, though, she must remember that. He could have. As she was swimming in her own relief and joy, he could have pulled the knife from his belt and she would have never seen. But he didn’t, and that’s why she forgave him. She had no other choice, really. The love she had for him was too great to send him away, too strong to have him killed. He had offered himself to her freely and she took. She didn’t want to let him go. _No, he’s mine. I will take this one bit of happiness for myself, even if it’s unwise, even if it does kill me._

As her mind works its way through the highs and lows that surround Jon, the anger ebbs away. It's useless now, she wouldn’t be alone with him for hours and it only ate away at her energy.

Moments later, her stomach rumbles, her body agreeing with the sentiment. _I should have eaten earlier._ She had wanted to, truly, but the tray before her had caused her stomach to roll, as if she were swaying on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm. The nausea was most likely brought on by the suspicions that coated her every thought whenever she glanced at a plate of food. She refused to call it paranoia, she _knew_ Varys had been trying to poison her. He had never been so concerned with her eating habits as much as he was when they’d arrived back on Dragonstone. His whispers could have been heard all the way here in King’s Landing, the order to poison the Dragon Queen could still be in effect. Maybe she's allowing her suspicion to dominate too much of her mind, giving it too much power, but she would not be taken out by a dead man, not when she's finally won. It's better to be cautious than careless.

Like everything else, she pushes the hunger away. She doesn't have time to be hungry, she would just have to wait.

She takes a deep breath, her resentment towards Jon’s words tempered, for the most part. But there's always something, someone. She was never free of betrayals. Tyrion crosses her mind next, and her fury returns, clearly not hearing her silent plea for rest.

His infuriating arrogance at the meeting made her want to grab Grey Worm’s spear and kill him herself, she knew she would feel satisfaction from it. He had dared called her mad, when not so long ago he had proudly called himself her Hand. The disgust in his eyes shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did. She could remember with great clarity the gratitude and love they had displayed when she presented him with the pin, the tears that magnified them. What had changed? She had realized soon after their arrival at Dragonstone that his council was compromised by his inconvenient love for his family, and still she had continued to hear his words, trust that his council was best because she believed in him, trusted him. Why did his gratitude, his love, disappear after he thought she’d failed him once? Why was his love for her so conditional?

She feels the lump creeping back up her throat and so she narrows in on her anger, hoping it’ll overshadow anything else, anything weak. Unfortunately, Tyrion’s other words come to her mind, and she can’t push it away. _I can’t have children._ He must truly hate her to bring it up, to suggest that Jon…no. She won’t think about that now, but she knows she will later. As much as his idea enrages her, pains her beyond belief, she hates even more that it makes sense. The tears start welling up, she’s lingered too long. Once again, she closes her eyes and breaths, shoving the matter of succession into the cramped cell with everything else.

She feels drained, she wants nothing more than to crawl into the bed and sleep the day away, take a few more hours to herself. _He would like that, if I stayed in here. Away from my people._ She finds the strength to push herself back onto her feet, wiping the invisible wrinkles from the front of her clothes, and walks hastily to the mirror.

The woman looking back at her vexes her. Her eyes are wide with emotion and yet they hold an emptiness in them that would frighten her if she holds eye contact.  She looks desperate, her face begging for something but Daenerys doesn’t know what. _It doesn’t matter._ She squares her shoulders, narrows her eyes at her reflection, trying to scare the weak woman away. Confusion flashes across her face before it smooths over, the Queen taking over. She quickly blinks and turns away, she doesn’t want to look in the face of this woman. This woman that the people fear, this woman that Tyrion hates, this woman that’s hardened by all the things cramped at the back of her mind. She thinks she would hate her too, if she stared too long.

She walks briskly to towards the door, realizing she’s been selfish with her time. Grey Worm would no doubt be waiting for her.

She passes her guards with her head held high, thankful that they’re disciplined enough not to show judgement if they felt her anger was undignified. When she arrives back at the courtyard, Grey Worm is standing before her, ready to escort her down to the city.

He walks beside her as they make their way through the ruins of her castle. _Was this worth it?_ She shakes the thought out of her head. She’s won. That’s what matters.

“Tell me truthfully, Grey Worm, is there any possibility of salvaging this city?”  

“It will take time, my Queen, but it will prosper.” His answer is honest, though Daenerys knows he’s holding back something else he wants to say.

“ _Truthfully_ , Grey Worm.”

“It will be difficult, many buildings have fallen, many roads are impassible. Jon Snow was right to say the people should leave the city. It is difficult work when they are here.”

“ _King_ Jon, Grey Worm. He is to rule alongside me, he deserves the respect his title commands.”

Grey Worm nods once, giving no indication on how he truly feels. She lets it go, now is not the time to try and pry emotion from her Master of War, not when his are most likely tied away like hers.

When they reach the entrance of the Red Keep, just before the steps, she’s in awe at the view before her. All she sees is white, the ash of the city blending with the snow brought from the North, falling to the ground slowly, peacefully. The blanket of white beneath her feet crunches softly and she can see her breathe in the chilled air. _It’s beautiful,_ she thinks.

Her quiet appreciation is interrupted by the distant, strangled scream of a woman. Her eyes shoot to Grey Worm’s, worried, panicked, seeking an explanation.

“There was not another area big enough, my Queen, we had to bring the people here to treat them.”

She nods, accepting the explanation, ignoring whatever feeling was scraping at the edge of her mind. She walks the rest of the way quickly, the ash and snow only annoying her now as they fell in front of her eyes, obscuring her otherwise clear vision.

A group of six Unsullied are waiting to escort her down. When she reaches the first step, sees over the edge, she's disappointed. The triumph she had felt before, the power, none of it comes to her now. Her Unsullied aren't lined up, standing proudly before her, her Dothraki aren't here cheering her victory, instead she's only met with the bleak view of hunched over, weak bodies, and cries of pain.

People start to spot her, heads whipping up to get steal a glance at the Dragon Queen, and the area grows quiet, the soft rumble of conversation disappearing until the only sounds left are those of pain.

Much to her irritation, she grows nervous. She has no reason to be, she is their Queen now, she’s conquered them all and yet she’s still fearful of their rejection. She tries to swallow the nerves down, reminding herself that she wouldn’t beg for their approval, she doesn’t need it. _But I want it,_ a small part of her thinks wistfully. Perhaps Jon was right, then, for advising her to cease the executions and begin treating the wounded, maybe it would appease that small part of her, to know that they didn’t despise her. She would indulge him, she would try to see if their love was still attainable.

She walks down the steps slowly, her Unsullied surrounding her, their presence bringing her a small comfort, reminding her she isn’t alone, even if all the mistrustful eyes are on her. When she reaches the bottom, she allows herself to truly look at the scene in front of her, she doesn’t shy away when she meets a pair of hateful eyes, she doesn’t flinch when she sees rags soaked in blood. She keeps her face neutral, though inside is anything but. One part of her wants to stare down anyone who isn’t looking at her with respect and force them to lower their eyes in submission, the other wants to walk over, hug them and say _I’m sorry it had to be this way._ That feeling seeps into the edges of her mind again and she shakes it away.

“Your Grace.”

The voice breaks her sweep of her surroundings, her eyes abandoning their path and hungrily seeking his familiar grey ones. He doesn’t sound angry with her, she notices, and for that she’s thankful. If she had to be subjected to _his_ along with everyone else’s, she fears it would be too much. Instead, his voice is laced with gentle curiosity and his eyes only show concern.

She offers him only a small, unsure smile, not knowing what to say. The one he gives back is tender and encouraging. She feels something graze her gloved hand and she looks down to see his fingers reaching out to her in question. She answers back by taking his hand in hers, comforted by the small squeeze he gives.

“If you would like to come with me, Your Grace, I could show you what’s being done so far.”

She wants to say yes, badly, having him near her would make the stares feel less penetrating, less isolating. Having his hand in hers would remind her that not everyone wants to keep their distance.  Still, her mind won’t let her forget his earlier words, his tone. Her anger may have subsided, but she wasn’t quite ready to pretend that she hadn’t been affected, especially in front of prying eyes.

“No, thank you.” She replies, her voice soft but firm. “Grey Worm will be escorting me, updating me on the progress. I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere.” She slowly removes her hand from his, but not before giving him a small squeeze of her own, hoping he knows how much his gesture, his offer, is appreciated.

He nods, resigned, before offering a separate suggestion. “I was actually hoping I could speak to Grey Worm, if that’s alright with you? The Northmen aren’t near as disciplined as his own, I thought I could offer him some insight, before he begins to distribute the men more permanently. Perhaps Ser Davos could escort you?”

His words don’t hold the authority they did earlier, when he commanded her to stay in the Keep, each one is more unsure than the last, each suggestion tentative, as if any decisiveness in his tone would be met with hostility. It saddens her, she doesn’t want him to be hesitant or unsure, she doesn't want _him_ to be afraid of her. _Maybe I shouldn’t have walked away, dismissed his words so coldly. Maybe we should have talked about it together._ She curses herself again. It’s all she seems to do now, as if she’s losing the faith in herself that she once held so firmly, the faith that had kept her going. Still, she must stand by her choices now, looking back would do no good.

“That sounds agreeable, _Your Grace_.” It’s all she can give him right now, all she can say, she only hopes it will be enough until they speak later, privately. She had asked him, after all, to rule with her, she only needed to remind herself of what that meant.

He gives her a puzzled look, her meaning clearly missed, but nonetheless he takes a step back preparing to leave, “Give me a moment to find him, then.”

As soon as he walks away, she feels exposed again, alienated from people who are only feet away. She stands awkwardly with Grey Worm, trying to look preoccupied, trying not to look at the people she knows are looking at her. She hates that she feels like this, she wasn’t supposed to feel like this. This uncomfortable displacement isn’t what she had sacrificed so much for. She hears a blend of horrific moans of pain from men and women and heartbreaking cries of children. It’s there again, scraping at her, and this time she hesitantly pushes it away.  

“Your Grace, I was told I would be escorting you around?” She grateful for Ser Davos’ interruption, grateful to stop thinking. “I do you hope a few of your men will be joining us. If we get into any trouble, I won’t be of much use to you, I’m afraid. Not much of a fighter.” His tone is casual, but she can see his true feelings in the way he doesn’t fully meet her eye, the way his body is turned slightly away, signs she’s grown used to in recent weeks. Still, he’s here, he didn’t love her as Tyrion once had and yet he was here. _He’s here because he loves Jon, not me._ She lets out a small sigh, she can’t feel happy for long.

She offers him a fake, gentle smile in response. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Ser Davos, but yes, I will have guards with me.”

Just behind him, Jon is there, observing her. She doesn’t like the way he watches her, like he’s waiting for something to happen. _He doesn’t trust me._ It annoys her, she’s a Queen, she doesn’t need to be watched like a child.

He steps closer to her, subtly nudging Ser Davos to the side, and faces her, looks into her eyes. _He’ll never understand how much such simple gestures mean to me._ “Well, my Queen, I only ask that you don’t wander to far into the city, not every street has been cleared. _Please_ be safe.”

She nods once.

“We’ll both be busy for the rest of the day, I imagine, but I would like us to have supper together. Is that alright?” There is an earnestness in his voice, she wouldn’t call it begging but it carries a small desperation. She doesn’t mind, she feels it too. They need to speak alone, air their grievances with one another before they piled up and crushed them both.

She gives him another nod, this time accompanied with a genuine smile, the kind she reserved only for him.

“Supper, then.” She responds, before shifting her attention to Ser Davos, “Shall we, my Lord?”

“This way, Your Grace,” he holds out a hand, gesturing to the crowd of endless stares of accusation and resentment. _I’m a Queen, a dragon, their stares mean nothing._

\---------------

She thought she knew what to expect. She knew people were dying, nearly everyone she’d spoken to felt obligated to mention it. She knew falling buildings killed people, gravely injured them, mutilated them in some cases. She knew battle could do awful things to men and those unfortunate enough to be in the way of swords and spears. She had been prepared for that. She hadn’t been prepared for the burns.  

Ser Davos walks her through the makeshift camp, explaining how they had separated the people as best they could by their injuries, to keep them by the proper medicines. It made for less chaos. He explains how they kept those close to death at the back, as the bodies were easier to move once they succumbed to the injuries. She feels it again, this time tugging incessantly at her, unwilling to be shoved away. Still, it's only strong enough to be an annoyance to her. She could fight it, but it felt permanently stationed where it was, only ready to move forward.

She offers consoling smiles to those who didn’t shy away from her gaze. She tries to convey kindness in her eyes, yet it doesn't come as easy as it once did, in Essos. It feels wrong doing it, it feels unnatural. She isn't sure if she likes what that means, kindness had always been something she prided herself in.

When they finally reach _that_ part of the camp, the part reserved for those suffering from burns, the largest part, she feels her mind being pulled in two. She doesn't want to feel anything. She wants to feel _something_.

The pain is more anguished here, somehow. The smell is worse than it was everywhere else. It isn't just the coppery smell of blood. The smell of burnt flesh, which she had caught drifts of walking throughout, was dense here. The odor was sour, rotting, making her involuntarily scrunch her nose. Ser Davos is quiet beside her, looking around at the people in front of him as she is.

Like before, she sees men, women, and children suffering from injuries inflicted on them. Some looked to be on the long road to healing, some looked to be on a path towards death, either insufferably long or mercifully short. Melted flesh never escapes her line of sight. It's dangling off limbs, blending faces until nothing was recognizable, exposing bone and muscle. Some bodies hold no life in them except empty stares and involuntary groans, too weak to do more.

Drogon’s flames had always reduced men to ash. If they felt pain, it was so brief it must be as merciful as a beheading, perhaps even more so. But these people weren’t granted the mercy of being in the direct path of the flames. No, they had just been brushed with it, and now they suffered more than those who were dead.

It's back again, this time _screaming_ at her, clawing painfully at her. She let's it, wanting to know what it was now, why it insists on continuing to bother her.

The rocks, the swords and spears, those were not her doing. The people crushed, stabbed, broken by these things was something she was able to handle with the composure of a Queen. There's enough distance between her and them. But this, she has no one to place blame on but herself.

 _Blame?_ _This is war,_ she insists. _They chose to follow a tyrant._

Immediately, she’s appalled at her own thoughts. The people in front of her, they didn’t look strong enough to follow anybody. Their loyalty to monarchs was nothing, only empty words they said to continue living their lives. She couldn’t fault them for that, really.

No, this was _her_ doing. The stench, the pain, the dying, it was all her. She sat atop Drogon, said the word to make it happen, not thinking that there would be survivors of her rage. But there had been, and they were right in front of her, suffering, and she couldn’t look away.

“Your Grace, we are doing the best we can, but we’ll be running out of things soon. We’ve already had to be selective with the salves, ointments, linen dressings.” His words bring a welcome distraction from her own thoughts, allow her to ignore them without thinking ill of herself. “If we could mention to our allies to bring more when we send the ravens, we’ll be resupplied before having to make any tougher choices.”

“Of course, Ser Davos.” She says back, her tone is shockingly detached, even to herself. With everything going on in her head, she’d expect any words she said to be strangled, unintelligible. It frightens her, knowing that she can see what’s in front of her, know that she’s caused it, and still keep everything at bay. She doesn’t want to sound like this. She tries again, allowing that small part of her to share the space with the Dragon Queen, “Is there something more we can do now? I expect some will be patched up soon, and well enough to make room for those who are more gravely injured, where do we move them after?”

“I don’t know, You Grace, it’s hard to find a building intact enough to house anyone. Either the ceiling’s collapsed or a wall is missing,” He replies earnestly, the surprise at her inquiry is difficult to miss. “I suppose we’ll make do, though. The Dothraki are efficient enough in clearing the streets, perhaps they could focus on a few nearby buildings? Just enough so people can sleep under a roof rather than beside their dying friends.”

She agrees quickly, happy that she could make it happen. “I’ll have them start immediately, Ser,” Still, she finds herself wanting to do more, “Is there anything else, my Lord? Beyond waiting, moving people, what else do _you_ think could be done?” Whatever feeling has been gnawing at her since she stepped out of the Keep seems to have taken over. She’s glad, she’d rather hear anything in her voice other than a cold detachment, even if it makes her feel weak.

There’s a flash of astonishment in his eyes before his begins to nod, “Yes, Your Grace, we could always do more,” There’s a passion in his voice that she admires. “You see, as injured and weak as they are, the men and woman are still able to care for themselves to some degree. Moving them, keeping guards around, it will be easy enough with capable bodies. It’s the children I’m worried about. Many are orphaned, now, no one to take care of them. Some older ones are running around, looking for their parents. Even those who’ve been lucky enough to find someone…I expect more will be orphaned soon enough. I was hoping we would be able to care for them separately. I know we don’t have many resources now, but the children should be a priority, Your Grace, they are the most vulnerable of your people.”

As he spoke, she caught the sight of one of these children. A little boy, no more than six, cloth wrapped around his left arm, not ending until it reached just under his chin. He's sitting alone, eyes red-rimmed, frightened. He's surrounded by people who are too occupied to care about his well-being, rushing past him, not sparing him a single glance. He was looking up, eyes desperately trying to catch someone else’s, some adult who could offer him a comforting embrace and tell him everything would be alright.

Ser Davos follows her eyes, spotting the boy himself. “Oh, that’s Ayden, Your Grace. He avoided the worst of it, just got brushed with some heat is my guess.”

“His arm?” Her voice is small, ashamed.

“Covered in nasty blisters but most of his skin is intact. He was one of the first we got to, managed to give him some milk of the poppy. It calmed him down enough to take a look at him arm.”

“Is anyone with him?” Her control is wavering now, but she doesn’t fight it. She’s tired of fighting it.

“No, Your Grace, he says his mother was with him, holding his younger sister. They were running and she told him to take cover in a building, he says she didn’t quite make it in.”

Daenerys is the reason she didn’t make it in. She yelled _Dracarys,_ relished when the flames consumed the streets beneath her, felt immense satisfaction that Cersei’s city was falling to pieces right before her eyes, and this little boy lost his mother and his little sister.

Her already fragile wall crumbles, then, her confidence leaves her, her indifference is ripped away, her victory is reduced to nothing more that a gruesome massacre. The _guilt_ threatens to overwhelm her. That’s what it is, she realizes. Guilt has been trying to force its way into her mind since she’d heard that first scream, trying to make her see, force her to understand that all this death was her doing.

There’s no possible way she could ignore it now, it may have succeeded in blanketing everything else in her mind, but it keeps screaming at her, keeps clawing at her, punishing her. With the guilt, though, comes a small relief. _I can’t be a complete monster, not if I feel the guilt._

She tears her eyes from the little boy, turning to Ser Davos, hoping that her struggle is contained. It must not be, because he looks concerned. He looks into her eyes. “Are you alright, You Grace?”

She ignores the question, she isn’t alright, but he can’t know that, “The children, Ser Davos, I want to oversee that myself. We’ll find a separate building, only for them. We’ll need to get it cleared quickly, fill it with beds and clothes, I want it done within the week.” She’s nodding to herself, speaking quickly, trying to right the wrongs she’s committed against these innocent children. “Dothraki women, they’re skilled caregivers, I’ll select a few women myself, this will be their task, though any offered help shouldn’t be turned away. We’ll need toys and books to give them, happy distractions.”

She stops talking, instead she forces herself to look around again, the guilt holding her eyelids back, as if it’s saying, _look what you’ve done, look at the lives you’ve ruined._  

There are some children like Ayden, sitting alone, patched up, blood seeping through the meshed fabric, their hair dirty with ash, their family gone because of Daenerys’ need for vengeance. Some are worse, their cries heightened in her ears, the guilt making her single them out. It’s a terrible sound, children crying in pain from injuries that occurred more than a day ago. Their throats must be raw by now. Even worse is the sight of them, the flames did not spare them because they’re children, their injuries are just as severe as the grown men agonizing beside them. She knows they won’t live much longer, their short lives will end in pain. They’ll die without the comfort of a parent’s arms wrapped around them. They’ll die afraid and alone because of her.

“That would be wonderful, Your Grace, thank you.” His response quiet, cautious. “Would you like to meet him, Ayden? He’s a quiet boy but he would appreciate the company, I’m sure.”

She finds herself nodding, despite the lack of appeal of the suggestion. She doesn’t want to walk up to this boy and keep him company, take the place of his mother that she’d turned to ash. But she also wants to, desperately. She wants to cradle him in her arms and try to make amends for what she’s done.

She begins to resent the guilt, resents the way it muddles her victory, the way overshadows her triumphant path towards the one goal she’s had for years. She knew there would be consequences, casualties, but she hadn’t expected to second guess her actions, question her method of finally obtaining the Iron Throne. _If I look back, I’m lost._

Her feet move her forward, her mind deciding for her. She hears her guards moving on either side of her, and when the boy sees six armed men and the Dragon Queen walking towards him, his eyes widen in immense fear, tears start to swell in his tired eyes. She waves them away, still moving forward, hoping he understands that she won’t harm him. When she reaches him, she bends down, so she’s eye-level with him, and everything else blurs away. The kindness conveyed in her gaze feels more natural, the smile she gives him isn’t completely forced.

“Hello, Ayden.” She starts, her voice is gentle, quiet, her words only for him. “Are you feeling alright?”

He gives her a quick nod, the fear still obvious in his face.

She tries again, placing a hand on his small ones cradled in his lap, “Are you in pain? Are you being fed?”

“Y-yes, m’lady. I-I was given bread and water this morning.” She smiles at his improper address.

“And the pain, is it bad?” She fears his answer, she doesn’t want the confirmation.

“Yes” His weak response is accompanied by a tremble in his lower lip. It’s all he gives her but it’s enough for her to close her eyes in shame.

The men and women, it was easy to feel anger towards them. They should have known better than to follow someone like Cersei, they should have wanted better for themselves. Ayden, though, he didn’t know better. He was only a babe when Cersei’s treasons began, he couldn’t have known, yet she punished him all the same. She yelled _Dracarys_ hoping it would kill him along with everyone else.

She gives his tiny hands a gentle squeeze, hoping it reminds him that someone cares, like it does for her. “It’ll be alright, Ayden. You’re a strong boy, I can tell. Soon enough you’ll be running around and playing again.” The hopefulness in her voice is for her as much as him.

An innocent happiness starts to swell in his eyes at her words, a small excited smile plays on his lips.

She stands up, then, thinking it would be best to end their interaction before he asks her _why_ _._

“I’ll see you again, tomorrow, Ayden. Perhaps I can bring you something a bit sweeter than bread?” She raises her eyebrows at him playfully and he nods his head vigorously in excitement.

She gives him another smile, they’re coming easier to her now. Flashes of Yunkai and Meereen fill her mind, whispers of _Mhysa_ brush past her ears.

Jon’s words come to her as well, _would it not be better to meet their fear with a gentle hand?_

She turns away then, determination sweeps her mind, intertwining with the guilt. _I will make this right_. She doesn’t want their fear, she wants their love, their admiration. She wants them to look at her the way her people looked at her in Essos, the way people looked at Jon in the North. She wants it more than she wants to settle for their fear. Perhaps the thought of ruling wouldn’t be so bleak if she had their love. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel like a stranger in her own country.

She’s walking through the camp quickly, her rapid steps making people look at her with bated breath, waiting for something to happen. The resentment, the hate, the anger, the fear, she feels it in every pair of eyes that follow her, but it doesn’t weaken her like before. She wants to prove them wrong, wants them to see that she isn’t mad, that she isn’t her father.

\---------------

She and Ser Davos spend the rest of the afternoon planning their temporary orphanage, scouting nearby buildings for suitable shelter. He’s more at ease with her, conversation flows easier between them, though the topics remain focused on the city. She stops and interacts with a few more people, some more hostile than others. It’s not as easy as she expects, waves of anger course her when people don’t look at her, ignore her, don’t appreciate her kindness. A gentle hand may be the best course, but a fierce one would gain her respect quicker, even if it’s superficial.

Tyrion’s past words reveal themselves from the shadows of her mind, and she begrudgingly holds onto them tightly, trying not to let them slip away again. _Fear alone will make my power brittle._

A few hours pass and she can no longer ignore the emptiness in her belly. She feels light-headed, tired, and she shyly asks Ser Davos if they could stop for a few minutes so she can rest.

“My apologies, Your Grace, truly, it must be well past midday.” His concern for her is real, and he subconsciously reaches out to her, as if she’ll topple over without support. “Let’s get some food in you.”

He begins to walk in the direction of the tables designated for food before she grabs his arm, “No, please, Ser Davos, that food is for the people. They need it more than me, I simply didn’t eat enough for breakfast. I can wait until supper, it’s only a few hours from now.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure a piece of bread can be spared for the Queen. And besides, Jon would be quite cross with me if I let you pass out because you were too stubborn to take a small piece of bread.” His fatherly scolding warms her more than she’d admit, and she gives in, following him towards the food.

When they arrive, she’s less than impressed with the spread laid out before them, bread and fruit are the only options available. She makes a mental note to see about getting meat at the table, it would be better for the people, give them more strength. She remembers how annoyed she was that very morning at the trouble of it all. She doesn’t think on it now, though, her hunger suddenly very persistent.

Ser Davos grabs a piece of bread and hands it to her, and she tears into it without a second thought. _This food can’t be poisoned, no one could have known I would eat from this table._ In a matter of minutes, it’s gone, her stomach vaguely satisfied with the meager meal. She still feels tired, though, and she can’t understand why. _I’d slept well enough._

She pushes it aside and stands up straighter, there was too much to do to be tired.

\-------------

Hours later she returns to the Keep, her feet sore and her eyes heavy. She’d love nothing more than to fall into bed, but she knows she can’t, she and Jon need to talk.

In their chambers, she reflects on her day and she changes into something less constricting, lets down her tight braids, smiling softly to herself when she realizes she’d enjoyed what she and Ser Davos had done. He’d spoken so passionately about the orphanage that she’d ask him to lead the project along with her, to help her in solving the problems she didn’t have much experience with. His life in Flea Bottom gave him insight that she valued immensely.

The future didn’t seem so grim now, so full of death. _Perhaps a merciful world would be better._ She shakes her head at the thought, mercy would leave room for treason, betrayal. Mercy would be seen as a weakness and people like Cersei would take advantage of it. Small mercies she could grant, she would grant. Doing so today made her feel good. But mercy would not be the cornerstone of her new world.

As she ties the cord of her robe, the door opens softly behind her, and she hears Jon’s familiar footsteps.

“I must say, I’m quite proud of myself, I’ve brought a much more appealing spread than earlier.”

She turns to see his arms full, a basket in one hand, and a flagon of wine in the other.

“I oversaw the preparation myself. Grey Worm insisted on having one of his men taste everything, just as a precaution, and I couldn’t find it in myself to argue.”

She smiles at his diligence, eager to have a real meal without thinking she’ll fall over her plate and die.

He walks over to the small table in the room, already set with two goblets and place settings. “Roasted boar, cooked vegetables, and Dornish wine. And more bread and cheese, I’m afraid. It’s not a grand feast, but it’s more than we’ve had.” As he’s talking, he takes the items out of the basket, and the smell of the boar drifts over, causing her mouth the water.

She walks over and stand next to him, placing a hand on his back. “Thank you,” she says quietly. _Thank you for watching the cooks, thank you for caring._

He turns his head away from the table to look down at her, the tenderness in his eyes makes her heart swell.

He places a hand on her cheek and whispers, “Of course,” before placing a small kiss of her forehead.

For the first time since that morning, she feels content. Jon’s touch, even just his presence, never fails to make her feel better, complete. It’s something she’s only ever felt with him, it’s how she knows they were meant for one another, both fated to build a new world together. Her love for her Sun and Stars paled in comparison to this, her lustful infatuation with Daario was now only laughable to her. Drogo’s love was aggressive, fierce, and she could never match it in strength, she was always going to be his Khaleesi, his possession, nothing more. Daario had been all too willing to bend to her will, do anything to stay in her good graces, and she constantly found herself acting the part of the Queen in her own bedchambers because she didn’t want him to think of her as less, presume that he was more. But Jon, she didn’t struggle to match his affections, didn’t find herself having to lead him in his, it was blissfully perfect.  

All too soon, reality rips back her simple happiness, and his earlier words and actions are pushed to the front of her mind. _I may have his love, but his loyalty? His honesty?_

She chides herself, hating that she habitually thinks the worst of him. It’s not his fault, the actions of others have made her hold her trust closer to her. Still, she’s grateful for the reminder.  She slowly pulls his hand away from her face and moves to take a seat. He follows, his face becoming serious, realizing their happy moment was over.

They eat in silence, not an entirely uncomfortable one but there’s a tension they both ignore. Her hunger takes precedence over anything else, anyway, the sight of the food suddenly makes her ravenous. As she eats, she can feel Jon’s eyes on her, though he’s trying to be subtle. Whether he’s watching her to read her mood or to make sure she’s eating, she doesn’t care, they’ll talk soon enough.

As if he hears her thought, he breaks the silence, setting his knife down, “Ser Davos mentioned an orphanage?”

“Yes, he and I spent the majority of the day discussing it,” her tone is cautious, wondering why he’s decided to start here.

He tries again, trying to pull more information from her, “They’re to be housed in a nearby building?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes.” She doesn’t mean to be so short with her answers, but she still doesn’t know his motives.

“Well, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” he says with a sigh, understanding that she won’t be willingly forthcoming with information.

She can’t help but snap back at him, her anger finally given the floor after being held in for so long, “It doesn’t matter what you think, it’s going to happen anyway.”

He flinches at her sudden curt tone, before meeting her gaze head-on, a small fire bubbling just beneath the surface of his features. It sends a thrill down her spine. “I thought you’d want to know my thoughts, seeing as how we’re doing this together.”

“And how are we to do this together when you’d rather me be locked away in this room?” She can’t keep the hurt out of her voice, but she hopes he doesn’t hear it.

But of course, he does, and he lets out a huff, the fire extinguishing slightly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“But you still meant to say it?”

“I did.”

“Why? I fought for this kingdom, this city, these people. Why do you want to keep me away from them?”

“I don’t…I just…I got worried, alright? I’ve seen what war can do to its survivors, the recklessness and stupidity that follow the possibility of death.”

“Were you worried for me or them?”

He thinks on her words, staring at her intently, before giving her an answer, “Both.”

She was right earlier, then. He thinks she would hurt the people. Recklessness and stupidity, he said. “Well, I didn’t do anything, as you can see. You may not have followed Tyrion’s words, but you certainly haven’t forgotten them, it seems.” It’s a cheap shot, reminding him of that, but she can’t help it. She wants to hurt him back for his lack of faith in her.

It works, pain flashes across his face before and she immediately regrets her spiteful words.

She reaches her hand across the table and places it over his, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

The corner of his mouth curls up slightly, “We’re not very good at thinking over our words, are we?”

“No, we aren’t,” She accepts his peace offering, giving him a wan smile.

He stares down at their hands, his serious demeanor softening, “You are my Queen, Dany. Tyrion’s words don’t matter to me.” His words are quiet, but firm.

She knows he believes what he says, and she sees the truth in them, but she can’t fully believe them herself. He’ll always listen to the words of their advisors, traitorous or otherwise, he’ll always gives them a chance to have their thoughts heard. He wouldn’t be her Jon if he didn’t. It’s enough for her to accept, though, and she tries to continue their necessary conversation.

“I’ve spent the better part of the decade having to fight for the freedom to make my own choices. Even before he sold me to Drogo, Viserys kept me line with fear. As much as I cared for him, Drogo expected his wife to obey him. After my dragons were born, I answered to no one, and yet men still thought I could be bent to their will. I didn’t appreciate that you tried to do the same.”

He nods in understanding but doesn’t say anything back. She’s glad, an explanation could easily turn into an excuse. Still, she must acknowledge her part in it, “I shouldn’t have…reacted so harshly. For that, I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s like, I suppose, to share my power.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to?”

His question stops her. _Will I be able to?_ Before him, she couldn’t imagine anyone taking those steps up to the throne with her. Even in a political marriage, her unnamed suitor would never have the honor of sharing her crown, not when he didn’t earn the privilege of it. But Jon had suffered just as much as she did, lost just as much, he has earned it. More than that, she wants to share it with him.

For a moment she imagines what would happen if she said no. He would step down without a second thought, but where would that leave him? She would still want his council, his advice. She wouldn’t want the nature of their relationship to change, she would always share her chambers with him. It would make him nothing more than her bed warmer. It would make him like Daario. He deserves better than that. If she couldn’t share her throne with him, she would need to end what they had. She couldn’t let him waste his potential to do great things simply because she was selfish. He's worth more than that.

“With you, yes,” she answers resolutely. “I want to. I just…need time to adjust.”

“I understand, I do too. We both need to be better, speak with each other before we speak with our advisors, so there aren’t any misunderstandings between us.”

She nods in agreement.

“And Grey Worm, I understand his loyalty is to you, but constantly asking for your permission to follow my orders won’t be efficient.”

“What does it matter? He’ll never hear conflicting orders from either of us, any commands will only be given after you and I come to an agreement.”

He gives her pointed look, “I know that, Daenerys, but if I ask him to pass a message on to Davos, it shouldn’t take hours because he needs to ask you if he can. I don’t plan on mobilizing the armies without your knowledge, I just want to help you rule as effectively as I can.”

She sighs loudly, unable to argue with his point, “I won’t _order_ him to follow your commands. I didn’t free the Unsullied just to give them a new Master. He only follows mine because he chooses to, but I will ask him to respect your authority, offer help where he can.”

“That’s more than fair, thank you.”

Everything feels almost perfect again, and she’s hopeful that the rest of their night will be peaceful, that her mind will be to spent to stir up any more hurt.

 _I can’t have children._ The sharp thought runs straight through her body, causing her chest to constrict painfully. Her stomach begins to churn, and the lump settles comfortably in the middle of her throat. As much as she doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s necessary. There’s no need to push off the inevitable.

“It’s not a pressing matter, I know, but it will eventually be your duty to carry on the Targaryen li—”

“We aren’t discussing that, Daenerys.”

“We need to, Jon. You know we do.” The lump distorts her words, making her sound pitiful in her ears. “I won’t lie to you, I don’t want you to marry anyone else, I hate the thought of it. But my selfishness can’t go any further than that. Our house can’t end because of me, not when you’re able to have children named Targaryen.”

He’s angry at her, but he doesn’t understand. She’s had the burden of thinking she was the last of her house for so long, thinking that her reign would be the final pages in the history of House Targaryen. The responsibility overwhelmed her at times. But she wasn’t the last anymore, and fate saw fit to give her Jon, only to make her true happiness with him unattainable. It was a cruel joke, but when have the gods ever been kind to her?

She wouldn’t let them rip him away from her like they wanted, but she had to compromise.

“Any child you have will be our heir and I will love them as if they were my own,” She has to stop, has to blink away the tears that sneak up on her, “Nothing needs to change, we just need to find a suitable woman, one who could give you more than one chi—”

“Please, stop.” He’s very angry, now. It would frighten her if she wasn’t sure that it was the right thing to do. She stops talking anyway, wanting him to say something. “Dany, don’t think on this too much, it’s not going to happen. Any of it. When the time comes, we will choose an heir another way. But I could never do that to you.”

“Do what? I know what I’m asking you to do, I know what it entails. But it must be done.” The tears rush back up and blur her vision, and she has to look down at her lap to try and gather her composure.

She hears him stand up and cross the table, feels her chair turn slightly, and she opens her eyes to find him kneeling in front of her, one if his hands come up to grasp at her thigh, trying to comfort her.

“Don’t ask me to do it, then. It hurts you to ask and it breaks my heart to even consider it. Neither of us wants it, so there’s no reason to discuss it.” His words are soft, gentle, and they calm her even though she can’t accept them.

“Jon…it wouldn’t be so bad. You would have a child, maybe a son. A little boy with your pretty dark curls. Every man wants sons.” She pictures him, Jon’s son with another woman. Maybe he would have her eyes. Blue, green, brown, any color to remind her that he wasn’t hers. He could even have her hair, and she would be tortured every day for the rest of her life to see Jon love a child with the golden locks of his true mother.

“Could you do it?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” For a moment she thinks he’s considering her words and her heart plummets to her feet.

“If it was me who couldn’t give you children, could you have another man’s child?”

 _No, never._ “It doesn’t matter what I’d do, that isn’t the case.”

Her answer doesn’t satisfy him, and desperation begins to flash in his eyes, “If it was, though? If you knew how much it would hurt me, how much it would kill me to see another man give you what I couldn’t, could you do it?”

She wants to lie, say yes, she can’t find it in her to do so. She knows she could never willingly bring him that misery, even if it meant the end of her house. She's well acquainted with that possibility anyway. “No. No, I couldn’t,” She sighs, the selfish part of her happy to lose the argument. “I guess we’ll be the last Targaryens.”  

“Then we better have one hell of a reign.”

A weak laugh escapes her, her mood finally lifting slightly, her mind releasing her from its dark grips. The issue doesn’t leave her completely, it crawls back into its darks corner, waiting for a future opportunity to attack her. She's happy to settle the matter for now, though, let him win.  

“Are you finished?” he asks, glancing at her food.

She nods, her stomach still unsettled.

“Then let’s go to bed, love.” He stands up and takes her hand, guiding her to the bed. He lifts the furs so she can climb in and the pillowy softness of the feathered mattress under her makes her yawn, eager to leave her busy mind for the calm nothingness of sleep.

Jon steps away to change, and she fights to keep her eyes open. When he walks back, having changed into cotton pants and a light tunic, he blows out the candles lighting the room, blanketing them in a muted darkness.

The moonlight casts a soft glow over the canopied bed, just enough so she can see his face. The contentedness washes over her again, and she relishes in it, knowing that nothing could disturb it for the rest of the night.

As soon as he’s settled himself, he holds an arm out, and she rolls over to him, finding her place in the crook of his arm, placing her head just over his heart.

“So, you don’t want me to marry anyone else?” There’s a playfulness in his words that she appreciates, cherishes. His words are almost always drowning in ten layers of worry, but after he’d knocked on her door, after their first night, he seemed to shed those layers just for her. She’s relieved he still can, that he still wants to.

She answers back, her hand sliding across the middle of his chest, “I’m afraid not, I’m quite a jealous woman. And a dragon doesn’t share.” She tilts her head up to look at him, wanting to see how he reacts to her possessiveness.

His hand tightens its grip on her waist, “Good. Then you shouldn’t expect me to share you either,” he replies, staring up at the ceiling. She can see a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“No?”

“No,” he says, a sudden seriousness in his words, “I am yours and you are mine.”

Her heart flutters at the sacred words.

“We don’t need to exchange vows in front of a septon for them to ring true, but I want to. Not for the realm, or the people, but for us. I should have asked you before, but I’m ashamed to admit that it never crossed my mind. Now that it has, though, I can’t get rid of it,” He shifts slightly to look down at her, “Marry me, Dany. Our marriage shouldn't be decided by a group of councilors, just me and you.”

The longing in his voice is enough to bring another lump to her throat, though she welcomes this one. When was the last time she’d been brought to tears by happiness? Her voice is caught in her throat and all she can do is give him a silent nod.

He smiles back before turning them, shifting so he could look down at her, nothing but unadulterated love and adoration in his eyes. He leans down to kiss her, his hand coming up to grasp the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. She pulls him closer, one hand on his arm, the other playing with the short curls at the nape of his neck. She feels his tongue on her bottom lip and she happily opens her mouth with a small moan, trying to memorize the taste of him, the softness of his lips.

She pulls away first, out of breath. His forehead comes to rest gently on hers, the air between them becoming hot and humid. He places small kiss on her lips, then another, before moving back to his side, pulling her even closer, until there’s no space separating them.

She moves her head back to her favorite spot, smiling to herself when she hears the rapid beating of his heart beneath her.

“I love you.” His words are quiet, but insistent, as if he’s still trying to convince her.

 _I know._ “I love you.” Hers are barely above a whisper, sleep pulling at her impatiently.  

The last thing she hears before her dreams take her is his contented sigh, and small rise of his chest rocks her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, so it was fun, but it was also a bit of a struggle. I didn't know whether I wanted the people to have no effect on her, or to break her down completely, so I settled in the middle. She genuinely wants to help now, but she doesn't feel remorse or regret over what she did. Not yet. Baby steps. She has a lot going on in her head, BUT SHE IS NOT MAD. It may feel all over the place, but she's all over the place. She and Jon talked more about their immediate issues, but he still doesn't fully understand where she is mentally, and she's trying to maintain her composure around everyone. And her ultimate goal is still the whole conquering and liberating thing, but she's decided to take this King's Landing side quest. 
> 
> Also, yeah, they're gonna get married, duh. I thought it was an obvious and logical thing to do in the show, but subverted expectations, I guess. I decided not to drag on their fighting either. As much as I enjoy angst, I just didn't think it would work well here, our girl needs communication, it wouldn't be good for either of them to sit with their anger. There will be more bickering in the future, maybe coupled with some angry or makeup sex if I'm ballsy enough to do it. 
> 
> I might start switching between POVs if this one was successful, let me know. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for positive response to the last chapter! I'm glad you enjoyed Daenerys' POV because I'm doing it again :)  
> Enjoy!

Daenerys wakes up in a cold sweat, as she had every morning for the last four days.

She slowly moves away from Jon, who's still sleeping peacefully beside her, and sits up in the bed. Pulling her knees up and resting her head between them, struggling to slow her breath, she tries to remember the nightmare.

Like before, she can't recall what had tormented her so greatly. She knows there was death, but she can't remember whose. She knows there was pain, but she can't remember what had caused it. She closes her eyes tightly, pushing herself to remember something. Her mind offers her glimpses of a great sword swinging through the air, water rushing up to swallow her, agonizing heat, and never-ending screams. She shakes her head, putting a stop to it. Somewhere in her chaotic thoughts, she knows what it means, and she won’t allow herself to put the pieces together.

She wants to close her eyes again, sleep for a little longer, the nightmares exhausted her again, but the soft light coming from under the heavy burgundy drapes tells her that the night’s almost over. Like clockwork, the nausea begins to stir in her belly, her nightmares unsettling her completely. Routinely, she lays down flat on her back, and takes deep, slow breaths in an attempt to calm her body.  

After a few minutes, the nausea leaves her, and she’s left feeling cold and tired. She turns gently, not wanting to disturb the contents of her stomach, and leans back into Jon. She feels his arm come back up to encircle her again and she sighs, knowing he’s awake, just like the last four mornings.

“Another nightmare?” he asks softly, eyes still closed.

“Yes,” she answers in defeat and slight irritation.

“Are you alright?” He’d learned after the first time not to ask what it was about.

“I will be,” she replies, appreciating that he doesn’t linger on the issue, give it more weight than it deserves. _They’re just silly nightmares_. “We have to get up soon.”

He lets out a loud breath through his nose, “But not yet. We could sleep a bit longer.”

“Hmm, we don’t have to sleep,” she replies with a smirk, wanting to lift her sour mood. She pulls herself up, placing a trail of kisses up his neck and along his chin. His grip on her tightens, his fingers digging into her side, and his lips meet hers in sweet, slow kiss.

Their slow actions become rushed, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, a small groan leaving his throat. He flips them over, settling between her opened legs, her shift rising up to her thighs. His hand wanders up her side, brushing against her breast, and his thumb swipes across her hardened nipple. She shivers, sensitive to his touch. _It’s been too long._ He holds himself over her with one arm, the other roaming her body with delicious pressure. One of her hands come up to nestle into his loose hair, the other grasping at his broad shoulder, bringing him closer to her.

The slight burn in her lungs forces her to pull away, and he continues his assault downwards, placing open mouthed kisses on her chin and down the side of her neck. She feels a calloused hand ghosting up her bare thigh and she tenses in anticipation.

“ _Jon_ ,” she sighs, closing her eyes and focusing on his touch, enjoying the trail of heat it leaves behind.

He abandons his path, having made it just to the neckline of her gown, and crashes his lips back to hers, his body pressing into her. She can feel him against her, hard and ready. She becomes desperate in her actions, pushing her hips up to meet his, wrapping a leg around his waist to keep him where he is. She wants him, badly. She wants to feel him inside her again, wants to lose herself in the pleasure he gives her. She also wants to hurry, before the interruption comes, as it has for the last four mornings.

Following the torturous, scripted play they seem to be in, the soft knock at the door pulls Jon away from her, and she lets out a small huff of annoyance. He hangs his head just beside her, his sharp breathes hot on her collarbone. She grabs the back of his neck, tangling her fingers into his soft curls, trying to pull him back to her, entice him to continue.

“Please Jon, let’s send them away,” she whispers wantonly in his ear. “Everything else can wait.”

He doesn’t immediately answer her, and she begins to hope that he’ll actually do it today, actually give in to her.

When he lets out a resigned sigh, she knows their private moment is over.

“One moment, please,” he calls out over his shoulder before giving her a weak smile.

She doesn’t return it this time. Her patience dwindles a little more every time he denies her. She doesn’t understand how he can do it, pull away from her and continue his day while she’s left drowning in unfulfilled desire. _He doesn’t want me._ The thought has come to her more than once in the last few days, but she’d always scoffed at it. Now she wasn’t so sure. She could still feel him against her, the physical evidence of his desire, but desires of the flesh didn’t always coincide with the mind. His body wanted hers, that much was obvious, but perhaps he didn’t. _I am his aunt by blood, maybe it means more to him than I thought._

He’s agreed to rule with her, to build a new world _together_. He says loves her, asked her to marry him. She’d assumed, as anyone would, that it meant he would want her in every way his words and promises implied. But Jon was different that every other man, maybe his words didn’t mean what she thought they did. Maybe his love for her was only pure, innocent, the love of a green boy. As sweet as she finds the idea, she couldn’t help but be disappointed in it. She doesn’t want that, not after she’s had his unrestrained lust, felt his rough passion. _I’ll settle for it anyway,_ she thinks. What else could she do? She needs him, he’s the only person left in this world that makes her feel less alone. She would just have to be content with her own touch, her own weak attempts to sate her desire.  

Today, though, he sees her disappointment, and gives her one last searing kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs against her lips.

Instead of accepting it as the apology it’s meant to be, it only confuses her. The kiss held a promise for things to come, things she became increasingly worried never would come. She wants to confront him about it, ask him why he won’t just take her, why he’s holding back. She fears his answer though, what if he says that he can’t? That his rigid Northern upbringing won’t let him? No, she’d rather remain blissfully ignorant and try to be happy with what he gives her.  

He untangles himself from her, his visible reluctance puzzling her even more. She watches him cross the room to let in her handmaid, his mussed-up curls and reddened lips not helping her want fade away. _Perhaps I’ll tell Merri to come a little later tomorrow, break this ungratifying cycle we seem to be in._ She's curious to see what he would do if the knock didn’t come, if he would continue.

“Would you like me to start a bath for you, Khaleesi?” The soft words pull her from her lustful musings, and she looks up to see Merri standing at the dressing table expectantly, waiting for Daenerys’ word.

She nods, ready to drudge on with the next part of the morning, where he readies for the day alone in one of the adjoined rooms, quickly and quietly, and then rushes off to commandeer her a tray of food that she’ll eat with some effort, while she spends that time in her bath, privately trying to convince herself that her fingers are just as skilled as his.

She rises from the bed after Jon begins his predictable actions, and graciously accepts the robe Merri holds out to her before going to sit at the dressing table.

“Will you wash your hair today, Khaleesi?” At Daenerys’ denial, she begins to pull her silver waves into a loose braid to pin to the top of her head, “Would you like help today?” Again, Daenerys shakes her head, eager to relieve some of her pent-up tension.

When she’s done, Merri goes to start her bath, and Daenerys is left alone. It’s her least favorite part of the day, being alone after Jon’s leaves her needy and confused and her handmaid leaves to do her duties. She's sat in front of the mirror that she reluctantly glances at every few seconds. Her reflection looks tired, excited, unsatisfied, aroused, miserable, and content. She doesn’t know what she feels.

Instead of dwelling on it, she begins to plan her day, eager to continue their work on the orphanage. She smiles softly to herself when she thinks of the children. Their innocence had allowed them to easily forgive her for what they’d endured. The small comforts of treats and warm blankets made their eyes dance in excitement whenever they saw her. It brings her more happiness than they’d ever know.

“Khaleesi, your bath is ready.”

Daenerys rises, giving herself one last look in the mirror, mollified when she notices that the misery isn’t as evident as it had been.

\---------------

Jon walks briskly down the half-ruined corridor, torn between continuing to his destination, and turning back around and throwing her back onto the bed to satisfy the lust that’s been swimming in her eyes for days now. His want for her is becoming unbearable, every morning it becomes more difficult to stop himself from tearing her painfully sheer gown from her body and kissing his way down her beautifully sculpted curves. He misses her, the way she feels around him, the sound of her soft moans in his ear, the way she whimpers his name when he thrusts into her.

He feels the blood rushing to his groin and aggressively shakes his head to clear his thoughts. His irritation grows at his self-inflicted frustration. As easy as it would have been to send her handmaiden away, to continue their pleasant morning, it would have felt rushed. _She deserves better than rushed,_ he thinks, though everyday he feels a little more foolish for the thought.

He wants to spend a whole night worshipping her, pleasuring her until her voice becomes raspy from overuse, until she pushes him away, fully sated. He doesn't want it to happen in ten minutes with her handmaid waiting outside the door. The problem was that every night they both returned to their chambers exhausted, their late supper not doing anything but adding to their drowsiness. As soon as they settled in the bed her eyes were fighting to stay open, it would be selfish for him to keep her awake. But his patience was wearing thin, he had half a mind to pull her from her duties in the middle of the day just so they could retire to their chambers with some energy remaining. _Maybe I’ll do just that today._

He finally reaches the kitchens, greeting the staff he’s become familiar with. He feels slightly guilty for watching them so keenly, but unknown faces come through often enough to keep him suspicious. Unsurprisingly, everyone is occupied, Daenerys has the kitchens working day and night cooking the food they distribute to the people. After her first day in the city, she’d asked them to prepare something more substantial than hard bread, to use whatever was left in the castle. “ _Good food will lift spirits. When is the last time any of them had fresh baked bread? Meat? If we can give them the small comfort of decent food, why shouldn’t we?”_ Her words had warmed his heart. Before, she’d only been concerned that their hunger would lead to treasonous behavior, she could have just as easily kept their hunger at bay with the simple spread of plain bread and dried fruit.

That one sentence, which had fallen from her lips so casually, as if it was the obvious thing to do, gave him so much hope. It drove him to work harder in their restoration of the massive city, to encourage her efforts and ideas for the people instead of asking her to proceed with caution. He tries not to let that hope blind him from what she’d done, what she wants to continue to do, but it relieves him to know that his efforts were not in vain, that his faith in her wasn’t foolish. That she would be the powerful, gentle, _good_ Queen she was destined to be. 

He tries not to interrupt the order they seemed to have established and shuffles his way over to Zhirri, one of the many Dothraki women who had offered to assist in the kitchens. When Dany had asked them to help in the efforts of caring for the people, they filled in every task that was lacking in bodies, ready to do their Khaleesi’s bidding. Zhirri wasn’t explicitly charged with preparing the Queen’s food, but he’d asked her to ensure her meals were safe, and so she’d made it her duty alone. He’d taken to helping her, enjoying the small part he had in caring for his Queen, even if it was as simple as cutting up fruit.

He didn’t have much to do today though, Zhirri had prepared a simple meal of sweetened porridge, a few rashes of bacon, and two small hot rolls with honeyed butter, and so he busied himself with laying everything out on the platter. Dany’s lack of appetite was beginning to worry him, she’d eat very little, and what she did eat, he could see she struggled to keep down, even when she tried to hide it. After her face paled at the smell of the eggs that he’d taken her not two days ago, he’d asked Zhirri to keep them away from any of her meals entirely, worried that her sickness could be more dangerous than a sudden aversion. Even more confusing was that her hunger seemed to return with vigor at their evening meals, it’s was the only thing that stopped him from begging her to let a Maester examine her.

He calming task is interrupted when he feels a large hand come down on his shoulder, “Your Grace,” a gruff voice says.

“Davos,” Jon replies.

Davos had found him in the kitchens the morning after his first day walking the streets with Daenerys. He’d been eager to relay the events of the day before, of Dany’s moment with the little boy. Jon couldn’t help but feel validated as Davos complimented her gentleness with the child and praised her determination to see the orphanage come to fruition. After that first time, he’d asked Davos to meet him here every morning and tell him of all that occurred on the previous day. Daenerys offered him her version every evening, but Davos’ retelling focused on the Queen herself. The man had a knack for reading people, and Jon’s mood was always lifted to the skies when Davos told him of her genuine efforts, how simple, kind gestures came easier to her with each passing day, how she became more sure of herself and her actions as the hours passed. A small part of him feels wrong for asking it of him, it was as good as spying, he wouldn’t spin it any other way. But he'ss desperate to know, he would follow her around the camp to witness her goodness for himself, but it would pull him away from his own work.

“I must say the Queen is working me to the bone,” Jon smiles at his words. “Yesterday she insisted we examine every pillow and blanket brought to us ourselves to ensure bedbugs wouldn’t find their way into the building. _I don’t trust anyone else with these tedious tasks, they don’t care as much as we do,_ she said. But let me tell you, an extra pair of eyes would have been a blessing.”

“How is the restoration coming? She mentioned the rumble was cleared away, are the standing walls salvageable?”

“By some miracle, yes. I always thought dragonfire melted stone, but as it turns out, the victors of wars past may have embellished their conquests.”

Jon chuckles at his words, “Will there be enough room, Davos? More and more children seem to appear in the camp every day.”

“Don’t worry about that, You Grace, the Queen already plans to scout more buildings today,” he glances down at the seemingly plain meal. “She’s still not eating much?”

Jon had voiced his concern to Davos after the incident with the eggs, asked him if the Queen had eaten anything at all during the day.

“Some things seem to unsettle her more than others. Rich foods are best avoided first thing, I’ve learned.”

Davos gives him an odd look, “What?” Jon replies, suddenly feeling self-conscious in his efforts of caring for Dany.

“Nothing, my boy. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on how much she eats today. She has a habit of waiting until she’s swaying on her feet to ask for some sort of meal.”

“Thank you, Davos, really. It’s beyond what I’ve asked of you, but I do appreciate it.”

“I’m beginning to see what you mean, Jon,” Ser Davos explains with softness in his voice, “Sometimes I catch her with such tenderness in her face, that I can’t believe she did what she did with a clear mind. The Queen that’s caring for the children, getting her hands dirty from the work, I would be quite proud to serve a woman like that.”

Jon nods his head in affirmation, “You will, Davos. We will. She’ll be a good queen.”

\---------------

Her bath was humiliatingly short. After she’d found her unsatisfying peak, she pulled herself from the tepid water and dried her body quickly, wanting to dress and move on, accepting that her sexual frustration would be accompanying her for yet another day.

When Jon returns to their chambers, Daenerys had already dressed in a dark grey overcoat, the textured stitching of the material its only embellishment, black trousers, and worn leather boots. The only detail of her house was the three-headed dragon chain she had draped across her middle. She’d decided on a few decorative braids to pull most of her hair away from her face, bringing then into a larger one that fell down her back. She found it easier to throw herself into their work when her hair wasn’t constantly falling over her shoulders, getting in the way.

He walks straight to the small table and sets down the food before turning around to face her, running his eyes down her body with admiration. Instead of flattering her, it annoys her.

She walks past him and takes a seat, thankful that the smell of the meal isn’t overtly strong.

“The city sweep will be finished today. We’ll be able to clear the roads faster without needing to stop and aid people. The other areas we’ve set up are running well enough. Grey Worm and I are working on splitting up provisions equally, making sure the daily resupplies aren’t delayed.”

As he speaks, she begins the task of eating her breakfast, finding it easier today than it has been. His eyes follow her movements, as they do every morning, only this time her irritation with him doesn’t let her appreciate his concern.

“I’m eating, Jon. You don’t need to watch me like a child.”

“I know, but it’s important for me to know what upsets you and what doesn’t, to pass it along to the cooks.”

She softens at his patience, unable to let her irritation make her seem ungrateful.

“Merri says I’m putting on weight, so your efforts aren’t in vain.” she offers softly with a smile. He walks over to the table and she tilts her head up, meeting his lips in a quick kiss. She enjoys these moments too much to let unnecessary bickering ruin them.

“Did you eat? I’d feel terrible if you put my hunger above your own.”

“I grabbed something while I was in the kitchens, no need to worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you, Jon. Your selfless heroism has gotten you into more trouble than I’d like.”

“There’s nothing heroic about ensuring the woman I love doesn’t starve.”

“Still, I’m sure it takes time that could be better spent, time you could be using to feed yourself properly.”

“Any man who loved someone half as much as I love you would do the same without a second thought.”

His matter-of-fact tone almost makes her confront him right there, but there’s no time for that conversation now. Time's passing quickly, it was already mid-morning and Ser Davos would be waiting for her. She finishes her meal quietly, thankful that her stomach wasn’t giving her anymore difficulties. Perhaps she would be able to get on with her day without the sudden bouts of queasiness.

“We should leave soon, Ser Davos and I have an ever-growing list of things to get done. I’m afraid we might be out later than usual today, I want the orphanage to be put to use tonight, the nights are too cold for them to sleep under the stars.”

He looks momentarily dejected at her words before nodding, “Of course. Perhaps I could come by today?” he asks with hope in his voice.

She’d told him a few days ago that she wanted to lead this project on her own, without feeling like he was overseeing her work. They’d come to an agreement shortly after that their days would be dedicated to the people, and they felt the best way to ensure efficiency was if the two monarchs spread their authority, Jon working with Grey Worm restoring whatever order they could to the city, and Daenerys focusing her efforts on the people with Ser Davos.

Admittedly, though, she’s been avoiding the other people, the less forgiving men and women. Of course, she ensures they’re being taken care of, having their basic needs met, but she didn’t interact with them as much as she did the children. She told herself that once the orphanage was running, she would extend her herself to the others, but as that day grew closer, she found herself growing more nervous at the prospect.

“That would be nice.” She replies. She’d like him to see her progress, to see what she’s accomplished. She doesn’t need it or depend on it, but she’d like him to be as proud of her as she is of him.

They both rise from the table and before she can make her way to the door, Jon gently wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. He stares down at her for a moment, a small smile on his lips.

“What?” She asks amusedly, relishing this final moment before their affections are locked away and they face the world outside these doors.

“Nothing, I just…I’ve missed you,” he says before he leans down and touches his lips to hers. “We shouldn’t neglect this, us.”

“I agree,” she says when they break apart, his words giving her some courage. “I miss being with you, Jon. I miss how it was between us.”

Her vulnerability pays off when he gives her another kiss before whispering, “ _Soon_ ,” against her lips. It’s enough for now.

After a few more brief kisses shared between them, they separate and walk towards the door.

\---------------

She spots Ayden first, gesturing wildly as he speaks to Ser Davos. The little boy had grown on her, warming to her quickly after she’d followed through on her promise of sweets. As much as it was a bribery to gain his affections, she felt the simple joy of having sweets and cakes should be part of everyone’s childhood. It’s something she’d been robbed of growing up the way she did.

He pauses for a moment in his story and his eye widen with excitement when he spots her over Davos’ shoulder.

“Queen Daenerys!” she smiles, knowing it was Ser Davos who had finally told him how to properly address her. “Have you seen the beds? Ser Davos says I get to have my own.”

She walks over to the pair, “You do, and since you’ve been such a great help, I’ll even let you have the first pick.” His eager smile warms her heart. Another boy calls to him and he looks up to her expectantly. She gives him a tiny nod, “I’ll see you later, Ayden.”           

He smiles up at her before he walks off to the direction of his friend.

She looks around the covered area, the flood of emotions quickly weighing her down. She thought she’d be used to the added burden by now, but every time it’s dropped on her shoulders, she stumbles at the force of it. The guilt settles itself at the forefront of her mind, she’s learned to welcome it now.

The view in front of her is as grim as it is hopeful. In the last few days she and Davos has managed to get most of the unattended children into one area, the Dothraki woman along with a few volunteers being a great help in caring for them. Some were still quiet, sitting quietly with blanks stares, emptiness in their eyes. She tries not to think about what caused it. Some were smiling, talking, finding friendships amongst each other. It makes her happy to see that they weren’t alone anymore.

Others made those dark, uncomfortable feelings stir in her gut. She struggled to balance all that she felt when she saw the children who had no hope of living to their next name day. The guilt was always there, but she found it increasingly difficult to sit with these children taking their last breaths and still say with conviction that it was necessary. Her wavering confidence angered her. Her anger made her feel ashamed. The cycle drained her with every death. She sat with many of them in their last moments, whispering sweet words in their little ears, not knowing if they heard or if it helped. Afterwards, she would be confused about her own intentions in doing so, was she being genuine in her comforting gestures or was she trying to make peace with herself?

She didn't linger on any of it though, didn't dwell on her wavering confidence, didn't sit with her anger, didn't acknowledge her shame. Her faith in herself was the only thing she had left, she couldn’t jeopardize it.

“Your Grace, if you’re ready, I might have found a few buildings suitable to our needs, none too far from the first,” Ser Davos’ words pull her back to the surface. He’s looking directly at her today, meeting her gaze. He seeks her out now, offers his insight without prompting, his words are less sharp when he speaks to her. She’s happy she’s made progress with Jon’s most trusted advisor.  

“Is everything settled here? No delays with the morning meals? We’re well-stocked on the medicines?”

He nods vigorously, “Everything is running smoothly, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Ser. I do apologize for my late arrival, Jon and I were speaking,” She feels her cheeks warm thinking on his last word to her. _Soon_.

Ser Davos gives her a small smile, “No apologies needed, Your Grace, it’s important for the King and Queen to…speak with one another.”

She wants to correct him, but it’s not an appropriate matter to discuss with the older man. She could have in another time with another advisor, a close friend. Her only friend.

She feels her throat constrict uncomfortably and so she lets out a small cough to clear it. “Well we should get started then, Ser, we’re already losing the day.”

They spend the next several hours inspecting the nearly finished orphanage. It was bare save for 5 rows of quickly constructed wooden bed frames with clean linens on each and a few small tables and chairs. Daenerys planned on filling the area with toys and books, perhaps a few braziers to keep the chill out. Ser Davos continued to remind her that it was only to be a temporary solution, but she still felt the children deserved a place to call home. A place they could think back on in the years to come and remember with fondness, even if their time here was brief. Their house with the red door.

They found another suitable building just a street over, intact enough to continue their project. As soon as she approved it, she wanted to begin the entire process over again. She wanted to clear the rubble, make the wooden bed frames, inspect every blanket that came through the doors, and she wanted to do it all herself, use her own hands to make it happen. Ser Davos chuckled at her enthusiasm, only convincing her to postpone when he’d reminded her that it was midday, and she’d promised a fair few that she would have sweets for them after their meal.

It was undoubtedly her favorite part of her day, watching innocent eyes brighten with excitement at the sight of a simple sweet roll. They didn’t have much in the stores of the keep, but she had decided to use a small portion of it for this, and she knew they could ration well enough until their allies arrived with more.

It also gave her an opportunity to speak with the other women. Her Dothraki always greeted her with a kindness and evident respect. The Westerosi women struggled to acknowledge her beyond a simple nod and a resigned, “Your Grace.” They would speak to her when she initiated it, but it was far from they way her people treated her in Essos. Her people in Essos hung on to her every word, smiled brightly whenever she looked their way. These women shifted their eyes when she spoke to them, gave her short answers to end their conversation quicker. Ser Davos said to give them time, but she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see that she was better than Cersei. Would Cersei every feed the children sweets using her own stores? Would Cersei every come down into the city to hand them out herself?

Today though, his words did seem to carry wisdom in them. The women gave her small smiles when she arrived, laughed quietly at the children’s loud enthusiasm caused by Daenerys’ appearance. To them, seeing her meant something good, she hoped it would one day be like that for all of her people.

“Your Grace.” The voice startles her, she’d forgotten he would be stopping by. She turns away from her task, handing the small basket to Dayana, one of the volunteers, before walking over to Jon.

He has a small smile on his lips, the kind that makes his eye crinkle in the corners. “You seem to be quite popular with the children.”

“The treats do help, I’ll admit,” she replies, her tone light. “I enjoy bringing them happiness where I can. It won’t bring back their parents, their families, but it does make them forget for a time. Sometimes its good to forget, better, even…” she trails off, getting momentarily lost in her own words.

She feels his hand reach out to hers, clasping the ends of her fingers, pulling her pack to the present, “The treats may help, but I doubt the kind hand that gives them is easily forgotten.”

She smiles at his words, taking them for the simple flattery that they are.

“Please, don’t let me disrupt you, we can talk when you’re finished,” he says, taking a small step back and gesturing towards the group.

“Why don’t you help?”

He hesitates, looking unsurely at the crowd. She pulls his hand encouragingly.

Unsurprisingly, the children gravitate towards Jon. The power he exudes is strong yet softened just enough to make him approachable. She tries not to envy it. The little boys look up at him with admiration, puffing out their chests to show him how strong they are. The little girls look up at him without any fear, only the unworried ease that comes with the feeling of complete safety. Soon enough, she takes a step back, allowing him to finish distributing the midday treats on his own, happy to get a break from all walking.

She’s leaning against an unoccupied table, feeling suddenly winded, when Ser Davos appears next to her, holding out a slice of bread with a knowing look, “You need to take care of yourself too, You Grace.”

She gives him a sheepish smile, “Thank you, Ser.”

As she slowly nibbles on the food, she watches Jon, her mood becoming more somber as she sees how natural he is with them. He’s stopped walking the area, instead they begin to gravitate towards him. The conversation flows naturally between him and the older children, he leans down to patiently listen to the younger ones, reacting just they way they want him to to their stories. He’s perfectly gentle with the ones who are too weak to stand up and greet him.

The women, she watches them too. He may be her King, but they aren’t married. Not yet, anyway. As far as they know he’s a free man, though she suspects it wouldn’t matter much if he wasn’t. If they were married, perhaps they would be more guarded with their looks, work harder to hide their attraction. Instead, she must watch them blush when he talks to them, lust dancing in their eyes. It doesn’t anger her as much as she thinks it would, she just feels a sadness wash over her.

She’s the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and these women are just common folk. _And yet any one of them can give him a child._ She felt the thought coming, creeping out from the shadows, but the blow doesn’t hurt any less.  She should abandon it, he said he wouldn’t even entertain the idea, but doing so would be the most selfish thing she’s ever done. House Targaryen can’t end with them, not because of her cursed womb. He hasn’t known the burden of being the last, he’s only ever known obscurity of the name Snow. She would gladly be selfish now, but in five years? Ten years? How could she live peacefully knowing that a Targaryen child was possible?

Even more, watching him now, she can’t help but feel wrong for taking it away from him. _He deserves this. He would love his own child fiercely._ The heartbreaking thought blurs her vision, and she has to tear her gaze to look down to her feet, before anyone saw her brief moment of weakness. She closes her eyes, thinking again of Jon’s child, his very possible future if only he looked beyond his own hesitations. She thinks of a little girl this time. She would be the joy of his life, she had no doubt. He would protect her with his life, she would hold his heart in her tiny little hands. She could have her father’s pouting lips and serious demeanor. She could have beautiful raven ringlets falling down her back. Daenerys thinks she could even push past her own heartbreak to brush it for her, braid it, stroke it like a mother would. Perhaps the little girl could call _her_ mama, if they found a woman willing to be separated from her child as soon as she gave birth. The possibility is slim, but it’s the only solace she could find in the agonizing idea.

“Your Grace?”

She’d forgotten Ser Davos was next to her, she swallows down her hurt and looks up to him, hoping to all the Gods her near breakdown wasn’t obvious. “Yes?”

“We’ll be out later than normal. It might be a good idea to eat more than a piece of bread today, you’ll be of no use when you can barely stand up on your own, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Normally, she would vehemently disagree, but she needs to sort her thoughts, declutter them before they overflowed. She gives him a grateful nod, “For once, I agree, Ser Davos. I am feeling quite tired. A few more minutes rest would be nice.” Her voice is soft, she doesn’t want to speak any louder or he’ll be able to hear the cracks.

He gives her a concerned look before nodding back, calling out to her guards, “Please see to it that Her Grace gets a serving of today’s meal.” They nod solemnly before looking at her expectantly, and she walks the short trip over to the food tables.

\---------------

Half of his attention was on the children gathered around him, amused at their enthusiasm, incredibly moved by their perseverance in wading through the bloody aftermath of Daenerys’ assault. The other half was on her, watching her watch him with a melancholic gaze. _I should go to her, she needs me._ He decides against it though, their private moments shouldn’t be on display for everyone to see.

He sees Ser Davos say a few words to her, concern painted on his features, before she nods and walks away. He’s about to stop, pull away from the crowd and follow her before Ser Davos catches his eye, and starts coming his way.

“Your Grace, may I have a word?” His casual tone keeps Jon from panicking, though he knows whatever it is he has to say concerns Dany. He peels himself away, promising to visit again in the near future. He finds he’s excited by the prospect, eager to come out and just be with the people, to see that their long hours and endless worries are paying off.

He and Davos walk to the same table Dany was leaning against, and Jon takes a quick glance around them, satisfied with the little privacy they have. “What is it?”

“Your Grace, please forgive me if I overstep, but Her Grace’s behavior is beginning to concern me,” he stops his words, waiting until Jon gives him a nod telling him that he could continue. “She behaves…oddly. I can tell when she holds thing in. Sometimes she looks like she’s going to burst into tears, sometimes it looks like she wants to call her dragon to her. She can flip in seconds. It’s as strange as is it impressive. Now, I don’t know her that well, but she never seemed so…tormented before. She doesn’t eat until I remind her to, until she’s on the edge of passing out. Jon, I do try to watch her, but she hides it well. To be fair, she might just be consumed with our work, time does get away from us. But I am worried that she might not care about her own hunger, her own health.”

Jon begins to shake his head halfway through his words, “She’s worried about poison, Davos. The sight of food can spark her suspicions.”

“Jon, you’ve taken great care to see that poison won’t make its way into her food. She knows that. Do you really think that’s what it is?”

“It has to be, Davos, unless you have other ideas?”

Davos stares as him for a moment, his face indecipherable, before giving him an answer, “No, no I guess I don’t. Just…take the advice of an old man? Don’t ignore signs if she gives them, even if she does.”

The old man’s words frustrate him. Everything decision, every action he takes revolves around her well-being, her safety. “If you think I’m failing her, tell me Davos. There’s no need to dance around it.” His words are flat.

“No, Jon. You aren’t failing her, please don’t misunderstand me. But you don’t know everything, things can catch you by surprise if you’re not suspecting it.”

“I know that, Davos. Believe me, if I had my way she would be seen by a Maester every time she coughed. But you said it yourself, she’s a stubborn woman. I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do, all I can do is be there when she needs me. I failed before, and I swear to all the Gods I won’t do it again,” Davos’ features unfurrow at his words. “Thank you for your concern, truly. It’s nice to know she isn’t alone when I’m not with her.”

Jon hopes his gratitude is evident. The entire world is against him, everyone around him would rather see her dead, or at the very least, wouldn’t mourn her if she was. He tells himself that it’s okay, that he’ll love her enough for all the people in the Seven Kingdoms, but she needs the love of her people. She thrives on their praise and admiration, basks in their affection. Davos’ concern is a small step to that, to people caring for her once again.

“I’m going to check on her, Davos. I’ll need to get back soon.”

With that, he makes his way over to Dany, who’s sitting alone, staring down at her food with the same sadness as before.

“The children love you,” He says as he walks up to her, wanting to see happiness in her eyes again.

“They love the food I give them, Jon. They were just as excited to have you giving to them.” Her voice is small and detached. Her past words come rushing back to him, _I don’t have love here._ He wants to gather her in his arms and hold her tight. Instead, he takes a seat neat to her, leaning in as close as he can with seeming too intimate. He didn’t say anything last time, not what she needed to hear. He wouldn’t make that same mistake.

His next words are quiet, gentle, just for her, “They may not understand that it was you, but your actions now have earned their love. If they understand one day, if their opinion of you changes, we’ll get through it together. But you are loved, Dany. By the children, by your Unsullied, your Dothraki, and by no one more than me. Please remember that.”

He doesn’t know if that’s what’s upsetting her, but he hopes his words bring her comfort, that they wrap around her like a warm blanket to shelter her from the cold reception of the world around her.

She glances at him briefly with a small smile before lowering her head again, “Thank you, Jon.”

 _That isn’t it, then._ Perhaps Davos was right, there is something more. Frustration floods him as he realizes he can’t say anything now, not in the middle of the day in the middle of the city. Instead, he grabs her hand resting on her lap, the gesture obscured by the table in front of them. She grips it tight, her head down and her eyes squeezed shut, battling through whatever it is going through her head, but at least she knows he’s there.

He’s patient, waiting for her to come back to him, but only seconds pass before she opens them again, and her grief is gone. _It’s as strange as it is impressive._ Instead of the happiness he wants her to feel, her face is a blank canvas, love flashing briefly as she looks at him again.

“I should get back, we still have much to do if the orphanage is going to be put to use tonight.”

He nods, understanding her desire to not linger on whatever was clouding her mind. _Later_ , he promises himself.

They both stand, the rest of her meal forgotten, though he’s pleased to see she’s eaten almost all of it. He looks around them quickly, making sure no eyes are on them, before he places a quick kiss on her forehead. He needed to touch her in some way, to reassure them both in a better way than hidden hands. He doesn’t care what the others think, but so much of them belongs to the people, he wants their love to just be theirs.

Jon realizes he’s made the right decision when she takes a deep breath, and her shoulders fall from their rigid position.

“You ready?” He asks, hoping the confidence he musters is enough for the both of them.

She gives him a small, sure nod, the Queen in her taking over. _She really is an extraordinary woman,_ he thinks with a smile.

He walks her back, his hand on the small of her back, the need to touch her still strong. When they reach Davos, he reluctantly pulls his hand from her, and bids them goodbye. He’d thought their conversations at dinner were open and honest, though he only now realized they barely scratched the surface of her complex mind. They needed to speak soon, not just about their daily activities, but about what’s going on in her head. And his. He needs to tell her that he doesn’t want to conquer the world, that he’s content to stay here the rest of their days and just live peacefully. They both deserve peace. He can’t go on letting her believe otherwise, it could be adding an unknown burden to her mind, and if he could relieve even a small part of that, it’s his duty to try.

\---------------

She wakes again, same as before. She sits up, head between her knees. She tries to remember, then pushes it back down when she starts to. She lays flat, takes her deep breathes. Unlike the other mornings, though, the nausea can’t be pacified, and she has to tear herself from the bed when she feels it rising to her throat. She makes it to the attached privy and the contents of her stomach spill out with a bitter, sharp burn.

She continues to heave, trying to stay quiet with a vain hope that Jon didn’t wake this morning. When she feels a cool hand begin to gently rub her back, she realizes how slim the possibility was.

“Are you alright?” She smiles at his question, his attempt at returning to the unfortunately comfortable routine.

“I will be,” she replies with a weak smile, her energy for the day already drained.

The gentle knock on the door tells her how much time has passed. _I doubt he’ll want to send her away now, that can’t have been a pretty picture._

“One moment, please,” he calls firmly, gently leading her back to the bed.

She feels too weak to physically resist him, but she does offer a verbal protest, “Jon, what are you doing? We have to get up anyway.”

“Dany please, just indulge me and rest a while longer.”

“Nothing is wrong with me, Jon. It was just the nightmare.”

“Nightmares don’t make someone physically ill nearly every morning. I can get a maester up here soo—”

“I don’t need a maester, I’m fine.”

“Then at least let Merri look over you, please?”

She wants to refuse again, but the pleading look in his eyes holds her tongue. If allowing her handmaid to look her over eased his worries, then she could do it. She gives him a nod, and sits on the edge of the bed, feeling chilled, her mouth still coated with the acidic taste of her sick. He brings her a cup of water, and she quickly gulps it down, wanting to clean her mouth.  She sits quietly as Jon explains what had happened, a small part of her becomes irritated when he mentions the past few mornings as well. She didn’t get sick those mornings, he was worrying over nothing. Still, Merri nods in understanding before walking over to her.

“Lay down for me, please, Khaleesi?”

She lays down on her back for the second time, feeling exposed as Merri begins to feel around her stomach, pushing down in some spots, humming softly to herself. Jon is standing behind her, his fingers stroking his beard anxiously.

Merri brings her hands higher, but Daenerys pulls away before she reaches her destination, a questioning look crossing her face, “What are you doing?”

Merri only offers her a gentle smile before lowering her hands. “Are they sore, Khaleesi?”

The question drags her back into her past, the heavy Dothraki accent, the sweet tone of a woman who cares. She can’t help but be reminded of another time, in a tent in the middle of the Dothraki Sea. _You change, Khaleesi._ She pulls herself back violently, unwilling to linger on it a moment longer. _That will never happen again_ , she thinks bitterly.

“Khaleesi?” Merri is still waiting on her answer.

She shakes her head, “No. Not sore,” her defiant tone leads Merri to give her a pointed look, waiting for a more honest answer. Daenerys sighs quietly, knowing the outcome the answer will lead her to. The impossible outcome. “A little sensitive, perhaps.”

Merri nods, reaching her diagnosis with Daenerys words. “There is nothing wrong, Khaleesi. It is only the baby.”

Daenerys closes her eyes in defeat, wanting anything but to hear those words, the words that still bring the flutter of hope she wanted so desperately to avoid. She’d rather hear that she has an incurable sickness, one that would take her life within the hour, than to hear something that can’t be true. “That can’t be it, Merri. It must have just been something I ate,” her words are void of emotion.

“No, Khaleesi. Feel,” She takes her hand, placing it just below her naval and gently pressing it down. Her heart begins to beat faster when she feels a small swell, rounded and firm. She tries to resist the hope, but it begins to push back. Her eyes begin to sting with tears, she runs her hand cautiously over the tiny bump, terrified it would disappear, that it wasn’t there at all.

“Are you sure?” Her voice sounds foreign in her ears, girl-like and stripped of it’s authority, as it was all those years ago.

“Yes, Khaleesi. Three moons, at least,” She can’t fight it anymore, the hope is sitting shamelessly in her heart. Still, she tries to shake the images forming in her mind, the overwhelming joy they threaten to bring her. _The dragons are my children. They’re the only children I will ever have._

 _Jon._ She sits up quickly, her eyes flashing to meet his, only to find him staring straight at the ground, his face pale and his expression unreadable. Part of her begins to panic, making wild assumptions for his reaction, but she manages to contain it. She quickly dismisses Merri, telling her she’ll send for her later.

She hears the door softly close, and it’s just her and him. She tries to wait for him, looking for any signs of how he feels, but the silence becomes suffocating.

“Jon, please say something,” her words are desperate, shaky. When he doesn’t react to her words, she pulls herself to her feet and tries again, “Jon.”

Her louder tone shakes him from his trance, and he finally looks back up at her. He stares at her intensely, his searing gaze warming her, before he takes two quick strides to her, gently takes her face in his hands, and lowering his lips to hers.

She can feel the small smile on his lips, and it calms her. _It’s not true, though. It can’t be._ He pulls back and looks down at her, his thumb softly wiping a tear she didn’t know had fallen.

She doesn’t know what to say. She can’t bring herself to acknowledge it, to hear the words fall from her own mouth. He doesn’t say anything either, instead his hand falls to her belly, right in the middle, probably unable to feel anything. She still wants to fight it, but she finds herself placing her hand over his and sliding it lower, hoping that if he feels it too, she’ll be able to believe it. She feels his hand surround the entire swell, tiny and well protected under his touch and she almost breaks.

She lets out a trembling breath, unaware that she had been holding it in and he give her a small, sweet smile. Unlike her, there isn’t tentative hope in his eyes, he believes it. He heard Merri, he feels the evidence, and he seems to have accepted it as truth already. _Maybe it is._ She feels herself give one last attempt at resistance, giving a small shake of her head, before his hands encircle her face again, stilling her movements.

“A baby, Dany. _Our_ baby,” his words are soft and full of wonder, but cautious, waiting for her to arrive at acceptance as well.

“Jon…” she starts, her voice hushed and sad.

He leans down and gives her another kiss, silencing her protest. He grabs her hand this time and moves it back to her belly, and she instinctively curls her fingers around the already familiar bump, wanting to keep it there forever and drown in the possibilities that it brings. She looks down, hoping to see _something,_ but her gown is shielding her eyes from it.

“Right here, Dany. Our child’s right here.”

Finally, she lets go of the truth she had known for so long, realizing that it might have been false after all. Just words said to hurt her. _Has it ever occurred to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information?_ A smile tugs at her lips, and she looks up at him, tears rapidly welling up in her eyes.

He lets out a shaky laugh, wet with unshed tears, “I should be upset with him already, for making his mother sick.”

 _Mother._ Her heart is pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears, “Him?”

Jon’s son, with his pretty dark curls. He could have _her_ eyes. Eyes that would remind the whole world that he was hers. It would remind her to, she would never be able to look at him without understanding the impossible miracle that he was.

“Or her, either way I’ll be giving them a stern talking to.”

She smiles at him, the ease with which he speaks of their child. The love already coating his words. She was right, he does deserve this. Her heart constricts with a welcoming pain, knowing that it’s _her_ who can give it to him, no one else.  

She finds her voice again, willing herself to say her next words with conviction, ready to believe that a life had taken root within her, despite the odds, “Don’t. I will suffer gladly every day if it means they’re growing healthy and strong.”

“You won’t suffer at all. Now that we know, I can care for you properly.” There’s a new determination in his words, a strong, protective one.

He hasn’t failed in caring for her though, she wants him to know that, “You already have, Jon. You’ve been perfect.”

He gives her a thankful smile, clearly needing to hear her say it. “I should get you some breakfast,” he nods to himself, starting to pull away from her.

“If you must, something easy, please. We’re already behind on our duties.”

“No duties today, for either of us,” she opens her mouth, ready to protest the ridiculous idea, before he pulls her close again, barely an inch between them. “You’re carrying my child. If I had it my way, I would never let you out of my sight again, but I doubt you’d approve. So, just give me today. Let’s forget everything else and just be happy together. One day.”

She softens at his words. _One day wouldn’t hurt._ She nods, suddenly wanting to spend hours with him, their hands curled around the life growing in her womb.

He dresses quickly, pausing to look at her every few seconds, a smile gracing his lips every time. When he’s done, he walks over again, and she tilts her head up for their goodbye.

“Hurry back,” she whispers against his lips when they pull apart.

“Always.”

When the door closes behind him, she doesn’t feel alone. Her hands come up to her belly again, her love for delicate curve already stronger than any feeling she’s ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously we're gonna have boatbaby, we were robbed. Or tentbaby, maybe waterfallbaby. Tbh, I don't know how much time has passed since the love boat, so let's assume they did the deed on the way to Winterfell, or at least once after. Whatever makes sense to you.  
> It was difficult to figure out how I wanted the reveal to go, I was gonna have Dadvos maybe plant the idea in Jon's mind but it didn't feel right. I wanted them to find out together, so I tried to do it justice and keep it as a private moment. Fear not, Jon's reaction is coming, probably picking up right outside the door.  
> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I won't lie, I'm not completely happy with this chapter, there's a lot of fluff. Too much for me anyway, it's kind of removed from the tone of the previous chapters. I was going to skip their whole day in bed and rewrite the whole thing, or maybe add in something to balance out the fluff, but decided to say screw it, they deserve a #treatyoself day. So instead of scraping this chapter completely, here it is y'all. I still hope you enjoy though!
> 
> I'll more than likely edit this chapter in the coming days, cause it's 1am now and I'm on dancing on the edge of delusion.
> 
> WARNING. The tiniest, briefest allusion to suicide in the first part, Jon's POV.

_“There is nothing wrong, Khaleesi. It is only the baby.”_

His heart skipped a beat at those words. He had anticipated such a simple answer. A sickness that just needed to run its course and she would be perfectly healthy in a few days’ time. Maybe something more sinister, a poison, even. It worried him but she wouldn’t die from it, he wouldn’t let her, he wouldn’t have accepted it. He thought he just needed to know what was wrong so he could make it right again.

But a _baby._ That wasn’t simple at all. Merri’s words had spilled from her mouth with ease, not knowing the gravity they held, the weight of the happiness they promised. As soon as she said it, his eyes had moved to Dany’s face, wanting to see the utter joy that overcame it so he could remember it until the day he took his last breath. But no joy had come, she only closed her eyes, her mouth turning downward, her bottom lip trembling. He watched as Merri took her hand and placed it over her stomach, and he saw Dany’s eyes widen, evidently feeling something.

His eyes had trailed down her body, his heart so loud he was sure they could hear it. When his gaze landed on her hand, slightly cupped around whatever she felt, it stopped. The color drained from his face and all that was left was a deafening silence. He heard only the small hum of their conversation, but he was trapped in the walls of his own mind. _I almost killed them both._

The guilt had rushed back to him, even sharper than before. It warped the entire truth he had grown comfortable with in the last few days. He didn’t do it, he didn’t put a dagger in her heart, she was here with him still, alive and breathing. But he didn’t know about the baby, their baby.

He could have killed their child along with her. He could have watched the life drain from her, the light leave her eyes, and not know that the life of their child would be lost to him as well. If he’d done it, he would have spent the rest of his days grieving the loss of his love, living in regret. Only a shell of a man wasting away, eagerly waiting for death to arrive at his door. If he somehow learned that he’d murdered his own child as well, he wouldn’t be able to wait for death to come to him, he would seek it out himself.

He was ready to tear himself from the room, to leave her and the life they had created, knowing that he couldn’t possibly be good for them. _They aren’t safe around me, I should never be allowed to hold my child. I shouldn’t be allowed to watch her belly grow with the innocent life I almost took._

Her voice was the only thing that stopped him, the sound of his name on her lips tore down the thick walls so he could escape his darkening thoughts. When he had looked at her, all he was able to see was her fear. _Why are you upset, love? We’re going to have a child._ He had looked into her vibrant blue eyes, and he could see that she wanted to be happy, wanted to believe Merri’s words, but it was overshadowed by a vulnerable fear. She needed him, his own turmoil be damned.

When he touched his lips to hers, all he could feel was the warmth of them, the proof that that her heart was still beating, and that she was alive, and she was with him. And she had their babe inside of her. He let those truths surround him, fill his body, take over his mind. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

Tears were in her eyes when he pulled away, the happiness still fighting to break through. He had no doubt it was a brutal fight, with a well-established enemy. She had believed for so long she wouldn’t have children, and time did nothing to prove her wrong. It hadn’t matter though, he didn’t let her fight it alone. He had allowed himself to touch her stomach, to try and grasp the reality in front of him instead of the one sitting in the back of his mind. She placed her hand over his and for an agonizing second, he thought she was going to take it off, push it away from her. He wouldn’t have blamed her. Instead, she took it lower and he felt it, the tiniest curve of her belly. Their child was sitting just below his hand, warm and protected inside of his mother _. His?_ It didn’t matter, all that mattered was that their babe was real, tangible.

After he took her hand and laid it over their child, after he spoke softly to her, simple, ordinary words every mother has heard at some point in time, words that were now hers to hear, she believed him.

Even now, walking down the corridor, he can’t contain the joy twitching on every feature of his face. He’s smiling to himself, his eyes straight in front of him, guiding him to the kitchens, but his mind back in the room with Dany, the mother of his child. _I’m going to be a father._

His stomach begins to flip in anticipation, nervousness, excitement. He welcomes all of it. His trail of thought had only focused on Dany, to bring her to the realization that would make her the happiest he’s ever seen her. He hadn’t thought about himself, not really. But she was there now, in that euphoric happiness, she knew she was going to be a mother, that she would hold her own babe in her arms soon. It would be his child as well, he tells himself.

Fatherhood had never been important to him. As soon as he learned the meaning of his name, what it entailed and the shame carried with it, he wrote off the possibility. He wasn’t even old enough to want it before he stripped his future of children. The Night’s Watch only bounded him to his seemingly easy decision. Being freed from his vows, named King in the North, it still wasn’t a thought in his mind, the Army of the Dead occupied every part of him. He was so sure he would die with them, he didn’t think of his future beyond the war.

Even after he met her, the thought only flashed in his mind briefly, once, an indulgence he had tried to avoid the moment he laid eyes on her. At the time it was an impossible thought. She was a Queen, he was base-born King who had come to her demanding help, she would never want that with him. After he woke up, after her dragon was killed, after they spoke, it was plucked from his mind completely again, and that was okay. He didn’t mourn it, he only wanted her. He would be more than content with his life if only she would have him, make him happy before he met his death at the hand of the Night King.

That didn’t happen though. Nothing happened the way he expected it to, the way it should have, and now he was going to be a father. It wasn’t an impossible thought anymore, it tore freely through the gates of his mind, and he allowed himself to be trampled by every bit of it. A girl or a boy, he didn’t care, so long as the babe looked like her. _Gods,_ he thinks, his eyes tearing up as soon as he imagines their child.

His feet somehow make it to the kitchens, and he finds Zhirri. She’s made the same meal as yesterday, only the bacon being switched for a link of pork sausage. _She’ll need more than that, our babe needs to grow strong._

“Zhirri, do we have fruit to spare for the Queen?” The woman nods. “We’ll be needing a midday meal brought to the rooms as well, whatever you can prepare on short notice.”

“Only for one?”

“No, both of us if you don’t mind.”

She nods again and disappears into the crowd.

He stands there, his foot tapping with impatience. He wants to get back to her, he wants to touch her belly again. His hand tingles at the thought.

“You alright, Jon?”

He turns to see Ser Davos heading towards him, his eyebrows turned inward in concern. He was perfectly fine, the happiest he’s ever been. He stares at the old man, fighting to maintain his usual seriousness, but he probably just looks pained. Davos’ words from yesterday come back to him. _You don’t know everything, things can catch you by surprise if you’re not suspecting it._ He cracks a smile.

“You knew, didn’t you?” His words are quiet, not wanting to be overheard, but even he can hear the unusual lightness of them.

Davos only stares at him, searching Jon’s face, trying to decipher what knowledge he was already supposed to have. All at once, his face smooths over, his shoulders fall back, and a smirk pulls at his mouth. “I suspected. I did want to say something, but it wasn’t my news to share. When did she tell you?”

“She didn’t know, we both found out this morning. Her handmaid.” Jon shakes his head in disbelief. “It was supposed to be impossible, Davos.”

“Impossible? You’re a man, she’s a woman, we were all on that boat. It would be strange if it didn’t happen.”

Jon doesn’t blush at his words, he only feels pride swell in his heart. “She believed she was barren.”

For a beat, the other man doesn’t say anything, he only absorbs Jon’s somber words, sees the truth in them.

“Well…you proved her wrong, didn’t you?” he finally replies with a slap on his shoulder. Jon feels his lips curl back again, unable to keep the delight off his face. It was a strange moment. He wasn’t a King, Davos wasn’t anything more than a friend. In this moment he was just a man who was going to have a child with the woman he loved. It was such a common occurrence, even dreaded in some cases, but it was something he’d never dared to think he would experience himself.

Zhirri comes back with a few apples and hands them to Jon, knowing it’s something he likes to do himself. As he begins to slice them into smaller pieces, he tells Davos of their plans, “If you don’t mind, you’ll have to oversee the Queen’s work on your own, just for today. I just…I don’t want to be apart from her right now. I know its selfish but—”

“It’s okay lad, you can be selfish. Just for today, though,” he says with a small laugh. “I don’t have the energy of a young man, it’s the Queen who keeps me on my toes.”

He shakes his head in amusement, “Do you think she would give me more than a day?”

“I suspect not. Well I should get going, then, can’t be falling behind,” he says, turning away from Jon, but not before giving him a soft smile. “I’m happy for you, Jon. You deserve the joy that comes with holding your own child, it’s like nothing else.”

With that, Jon haphazardly cuts the rest of the fruit in uneven slices, wanting to run back to their chambers.

\---------------

She can’t stop running her hands over her belly, a relieved smile graces her face every time she feels that it’s still there. Her child. She’s moved back to the bed, feeling unusually relaxed and weightless.

Jon was right to suggest staying hidden away for the day, she wouldn’t be able to think of anything else, not with this news so fresh in her mind. She wouldn’t be able to keep her hands from her belly, keep the smile off her face. Poor Ser Davos would probably become exasperated with her daydreaming. No, she’d rather be with Jon. He’s only been gone for a few minutes, but she was already impatient for him to return to her.

She was lost in her movements when he did, the slight click of the door pulling her eyes from the soft white fabric of her gown. When she looked up at him, they exchanged small smiles, his joyfully proud, hers tentatively blissful. He doesn’t say a word as he walks back to the bed, pulling himself up to sit in his usual spot, the furs still ruffled and messy from their previous nights’ sleep.

 _That feels like a lifetime ago_ , she thinks. They’d woken only an hour ago, and yet her life had shifted entirely from where it was when she ran from bed to the privy. When she woke, the back of her mind still sheltered that tormenting thought, and not ten minutes later she felt it shrink away with Jon’s reassuring words.

He lays down a small tray between them, and her stomach rumbles when the smell of the rolls hit her nose. She picks one up and begins to eat it, a newfound determination taking root in heart to finish the whole meal, for her child. A brief shame brushes through her thinking of all the times she denied a meal or ate with annoyance, every time she unknowingly starved her babe. She pushes it away, today was about being happy, she wouldn’t let anything take her happiness away.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon asks with quiet amusement, probably watching the range of emotions cross her face.

She looks up at him to see him leaning back against the dark wooden headboard, looking her with the softest tenderness she’d ever seen from him.

She smiles shyly under his stare, “Our baby.” She can feel her eyes gloss over at her words. It’s the first time she said the impossible words aloud.

His hand finds its way to her stomach again, and hers quickly follows to lay over it. He sits ups and touches his brow to hers, “I love you,” he breathes.

“I love you,” she says, strained with emotion.

She pulls away from him and goes back to eating, but his hand never leaves her, his thumb softly stroking her belly. When he watches her this time, she only smirks when their eyes meet and continues her meal. When she’s full, he picks at what’s left, finishing the porridge and the other roll.

“You should eat more, too. You’re looking a little skinny, Jon,” she teases, playfully gripping his arm.

He lets out a small laugh before picking up the tray and placing it on the table beside him. He surprises her by moving his hand to grip her waist, pulling her into his lap to straddle him. She laughs at the sudden movement, the youthfulness of it. Her hands come up to his shoulders and she stares down at him, his features devoid of the deep worry lines, the mask that ages him. He looks so young.

Their smiles slowly fade, and a new energy starts to buzz between them, causing her skin to tingle.

“Is it soon?” She asks. She can’t hold back the insecurity that seep into her words, she needed to feel close to him.

Her heart beats faster when his eyes darken at her words, and his hand start to slide up her thighs, bringing up the fabric of her shift with them.

“Aye.”

He pulls her face down to his and their lips meet in a bruising kiss, their tongues fighting for dominance. Any tenderness is thrown at the window as they claw at each other, his fingers kneading the flesh of her upper thighs while her fingers struggle to undo the clasps of his gambeson.

“Why did you bother to dress?” she breathes into his mouth with frustration.

He laughs softly at her words, releasing her thighs from his grip and flipping them over.

He sits up on his knees, making quick work of removing it, and she stares up at him hungrily, waiting for his continuing assault. As soon as he’s free of the offending fabric she pulls him back down, her impatience winning out. They stay like that for several minutes, enjoying the feel of one another, an occasional breathy giggle is shared between them when they remember the reason for their happiness. His touches become less frantic, though the hungry remains steady. She can feel him everywhere, softly cupping her cheek, running his fingers down her neck, lovingly gripping her waist to pull her closer.

Eventually she feels his hand on her thighs again, pushing up the gown, intent on getting off. She helps him, lifting her hips, both of them gasping when she brushes against him. After that, everything is a blur. His hands leave a trail of fire over her body, followed by open-mouth kisses that sooth the burn. She feels him stop, and she opens her eyes to him staring as her lower stomach. Laying flat, it’s more pronounced that she thought it would be, and her heart swells at the sight of it, the proof of their love. He closes his eyes and touches his forehead to it for a moment, she can feel the brush of whispered words just under her naval. She reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair, enjoying the soft curls between her fingers. He looks up at her, the same sweet smile playing on his lips, his eyes still brimming with lust.

“Come here,” she whispers, no longer content to endure his sweet torture. _We have the whole day,_ she thinks with a smirk, but right now she wanted him inside her.

He moves himself back up and pulls her into a deep kiss. She feels so many things in that single kiss, his love, his lust, his gratitude, his adoration. It’s almost enough to send her over the edge.

Finally, he pulls his lips from hers, their eyes meeting as he slowly pushes into her.

Everything about it was familiar, yet it also felt like it could be the first time they’d ever fallen into bed together.  With every roll of his hips she could feel the sway of the ship, with every kiss passed between them she could hear the winter winds blowing harshly outside of their tent. Every time he breathes out her name, her muscles clenched around him with the memories his gruff voice conjured up. But every time he thrusted into her, stretched her, she was astonished at how perfect he fit inside her, breathless at how good he felt. She doubted she would ever get used to the feeling.

Her hands are everywhere, needing to touch every part of him. She strokes the bristles of his beard, pulls at the hair sitting nape of his neck, claws at his shoulders when a particular thrust makes her see stars, runs her fingers down his back with a strong pressure whenever she wants him to go faster, harder, deeper.

Everything around them fades from existence. All she could see was his curls falling around his beautiful face, his dark eyes, and his swollen lips. All she could hear was the lewd sound of their bodies joining, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. She moans his name. He whispers sweet, sometimes indecent, words into her ear. When she’s close, he peels his body from hers to sit up, throwing one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her up to his increasingly rough thrusts. She falls apart within seconds, his name falling from her lips in one last, raspy moan. He follows soon after, letting out a quiet groan as her walls constrict around him.

After the last waves of her climax fade, she left feeling boneless and exhausted and perfectly satisfied. He gently sets down her leg and pulls out of her, and she whimpers at the loss of him. They share a few brief kisses, their haggard breathing not allowing any more.

When they’ve both recovered from their frenzied passion, he untangles himself from her and walks over to the basin of clean water Merri had left earlier, dampening a small linen cloth with the cool water. He cleans the mess from her thighs, the brush of the fabric on her sensitive flesh dancing on the edge of painful.

He sees her flinch and gives her an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry if I was too rough.”

“Mmm, you know you weren’t,” she replies with a sleepy smile. “I’ve told you before not to apologize. If you’re being too rough, I’ll tell you.”

“It’s different now, though,” he says, glances at her stomach. “I would never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

The concern in his voice warms her. “Well, you weren’t too rough.”

He sets the cloth next to the tray and slides back into the bed, pulling her close and throwing the furs over the both of them.

“I was worried, you know.” She starts, her voiced dazed and barely above a whisper.

“About what?”

“That you didn’t…want me in that way anymore.”

He didn’t say anything for a long beat, and she felt her heart begin to descend, the only pushback being his fingers lightly trailing down her back, keeping her tethered to their love.

“I thought that I shouldn’t for a while,” he finally replies, his words tinged with regret.

 _I know,_ she thinks, the hurt of his rejection was only just beginning to fade. _What changed his mind?_

“And now? Nothing’s changed. You’re still…who you are.” She doesn’t want to say it out loud, risk their comfortable affections.

He leans down as kisses her, taking her bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m Aegon Targaryen, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe it should bother me, but after Sam told me, all I wanted was to go to you. I knew you would make me feel less alone, more like myself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because every time I looked at you, all I would think of was how much I love you. I kept telling myself that I couldn’t think that, you’re my father’s sister. But I finally realized that it’s not true _to me_. Ned Stark was my father. I grew up as a Stark, not a Targaryen. I could never see you as something other than the woman I love. Even if I was strong enough to keep my distance from you, I would pine for you the rest of my days.”

“You did distance yourself from me,” she says, remembering when she tried one last time to pull him back to her, back to how they were before the storm of the North tore them to shreds, how his lips remained still when she kissed him.

“One last attempt to fight my feelings for you, nothing more.”

“Don’t do it again.” She can’t fight the edge that seeps into her voice, her fear of the possibility arming itself against the hurt he could cause.

“I couldn’t. I want you too much.”

“Are okay with it, though? Being a Targaryen?”

“I am. I’ve accepted it, but it’s still so removed from who I am. I think I can be both, a Stark and a Targaryen, but I’ll always feel like Jon Snow.”

She smiles, it’s all she can do now when she hears the name of her Northern love, “That’s alright, I fell in love Jon Snow. Not Aegon Targaryen or a Stark.”

“Our child will be a Targaryen.”

She tears up at his words, all the meaning that they hold. She wouldn’t be the last anymore, her house won’t end because of the naïve trust she’d placed in a witch. She’ll carry on her name despite every attempt made in the last twenty years to smother the flame. More importantly, she’ll be a mother. She can remember the first time she felt Rhaego flutter in her womb, the protectiveness that overcame her, the love she held for the child she had yet to lay eyes on. And she never did. Her child was taken from her just as her husband was. Time had helped the wound scar over, though it would always be visible and rough to the touch. However, all the time in the world could never make her abandon the maternal love she’d embraced when she when she felt her son move in her. She was resigned to believe she would carry it with her for the rest of her life, unused and forever longing for a child to wrap around. She’d tried, but her people didn’t come from her body, she didn’t feel them kick against her belly. Now, that love was bursting through every fiber of her being again, from her toes to the tips of her fingers to the ends of her hair, buzzing for the child now growing in her womb.

“I hope they look like you,” she says, lifting her head to rest her chin on his chest so she could look up at him. She’s almost nervous to say it, to finally let her mind paint the precious image of their baby.

He laughs at that, “Another Targaryen with black hair and dark eyes. That would be a travesty.”

“The next one, then.” They’re dangerous words, words that extend her hope even further into the future. She knows she shouldn’t, the future was so unsure, and hers almost always had heartbreak and loss lurking at every corner. But she wanted to be happy again, to look at her future with a hope instead of with caution and mistrust.

He understands her meaning, “Aye. The next one. “

She begins to drift, the rush of the early morning finally catching up to her. She feels her eyes grow heavy and his continuous stroke down her hair lull her to sleep.

\---------------

“We’ll have to marry soon,” she says, breathless, her head falling onto his shoulder, spent from their coupling.

He thinks its midday, though he can’t be sure. Time didn’t have a place in the canopied bed, not today. He’d spent the last few hours watching her, holding her, praying that her nightmares wouldn’t force her to rip herself away from her much needed sleep. When she did wake, her hand immediately flew down to her stomach, and she smiled in relief. The kiss they shared afterwards quickly led to an immediate need to have each other again.

“I know.” He rumbles, his hands gripping her bottom, holding her to him, their bodies still slick with sweat. “We should probably wait until our allies arrive.”

“That’ll be another fortnight, at least,” she complains, laying idle kisses up his neck and around his chin. “I want to marry you now, before everyone arrives. Before they have an opportunity to voice opposition. “

“Their opposition won’t matter, you’re going to be my wife,” he says, his voice thick with possessiveness. In truth, he was nervous to wait as well, it gave time for _her_ to change her mind, to decide that marriage alliances would be more beneficial to them. It was silly and unlikely, but the insecurities of his past still plagued him, even when she’d given herself to him, even with his child in her belly. The thought stirs a primitive lust in him.

“I haven’t had the chance to brag, you know.”

She lifts her head and quirks an eyebrow at him, and curious smile on her lips, “Brag?”

“Your witch’s curse wasn’t exactly effective.”

She rolls her eyes ay his boyish pride, but her words echo his satisfaction, “It was for a while. I think you’re the only one who could have broken it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well with Daario, I—”

“Nevermind,” he grumbles at the mention of the sellsword, his jealousy surfacing despite the fact that it was _him_ who was still seated inside her and the other man was across the Narrow Sea.

She laughs quietly at his irrationality, bringing her hands up to cup his face, “I think it’s because we were always meant for each other and no one else. A petty curse from a witch isn’t strong enough to hold against the fate of two dragons. Our child was inevitable, just as we were.”

“I think that, too. The love I have for you is dangerous. I pity whoever tries to rip us apart,” the darkness of his own words surprises him, but he knows deep in his chest that there is a truth in them. If someone tried to take her from him, he wasn’t sure his rage could be tamed. He wasn’t sure if he would want it to be.

Her eyes darken as she absorbs his threatening words, the possessiveness of them, and she shifts in his lap, letting out a soft moan before taking his lips in a slow, sensual kiss. She pulls her lips from his, just enough to whisper, “What would you do to them?”

It was probably wrong for their lust to build from the promise of violence, but he didn’t think too much on it. He would never let it get that far, he would protect her and their child with all that he had.

“Well, I—” a knock at the door interrupts him, and he lets out a sigh, _I guess it is midday,_ “That’ll be the food, love.”

Her lip curls in an adorable pout, “The food can wait, I’m not hungry.”

“Perhaps I would be more inclined to believe you if your empty stomach isn’t what woke you up,” he says with amusement.

She smiles, and reluctantly lifts herself from his lap, “We’ll continue this after, then.”

He gets up from the bed, hastily throwing on his trousers. As he walks to the door, he takes in the sight of her, his Queen, his love, wrapped up in a sheet, hair tangled and messy, pure contentment on her face. _Yes,_ he thinks, _I would kill anyone who would try to take this from me._

\---------------

“What if she doesn’t come?” she asks, drawing patterns on the backs of his hands, her head resting on his shoulder.

He shifts behind her, the water splashing against the sides of the copper tub. He turns his hands, intertwining their fingers together. “If she doesn’t come on her own, I will send a small host to escort her.”

The sun was only just going down, their blissful day coming to an end. A rush of sadness flushes through her, but she doesn’t let it settle. They have a few more hours, she wasn’t going to mourn for something she still had. Jon had sent for a bath after she jokingly commented on her sore muscles, his brow becoming wrinkled with worry. She’d sharply told him that she wasn’t a glass doll, he apologized, and she said the only way she would forgive him is if she joined her. Much to her delight, he’d agreed without hesitation.

“I don’t think it will come to that, though. The raven said we wanted to _discuss the future of the North._ How she interprets that is up to her, but no promises were made. She’s welcome to ask for independence, but it won’t be granted,” he says when she stays silent.

“Jon, I don’t think we should tell her about the baby, I don’t trust her. She could try to use the information to her advantage, she could try to hurt us. I know she’s your sister but if she makes a threat against my child’s life, I won’t hesitate to have her executed.”

“If she makes a threat against _your_ life, I’ll swing the sword myself.”

His words sadden her as much as they comfort her, she knows how much his family means to him. She has no love for the Starks siblings, but Jon does. She couldn’t fault him for it, the love of siblings wasn’t a luxury she ever truly had, a luxury that Jon would have to give up for her. “I never wanted this, Jon. I never wanted you to have to choose between me and your family, you have to know that.”

“I know,” he replies reassuringly, giving her fingers a squeeze. “But I did try with them, and Sansa did exactly what you said she would. We won’t tell her, she can find out with along with the rest of the people, through rumors and stories. And nobody else will know until after we’ve married.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you._ ”

‘For what?”

“For forgiving my stupidity.”

“It wasn’t stupidity, you just like to see the good in people, hope they’ll be as honorable as you. I’m sorry your sister failed you in that.”

He lays wet kisses along her shoulder, and she rolls her head further to the side, sighing as the calming gesture. “Let’s not talk about Sansa anymore,” he says when he reaches her neck.

She’s more than willing to drop the subject of the cold red head, but she’s curious about Jon’s other siblings. “Arya and Bran? I don’t know them well, they never gave me the chance to know them. How do you think they’ll react to any of this?”

“Arya’s here, in the city,” Daenerys turns her head to look at him. “She won’t speak to me. As for Bran, well, I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if he’s Bran anymore. Perhaps I’ve already lost my brother.”

Her eyes tear up at the sadness in his voice, “You were closest to Arya. I—Jon, it’s my fault you’ve lost your—”

“ _Stop_ apologizing,” he says with a kiss. “I love Arya, she knows that. If she never speaks to me again, it’s because she chooses not to.”

She decides not to argue with him, instead she moves to a lighter topic, “You’re going to smell like lavender oil.”

“I don’t mind, the scent reminds me of you.”

She smiles at his sweet words. “When did you become so charming, Jon Snow?”

He laughs, “I think you’re the only one who would find me charming. Even then, you weren’t so charmed at first.”

She smiles, thinking of the first time she saw him, the anger brought on by his refusal to bend the knee, the rage when he had the nerve to ask a favor in return. “No, not charmed. You were quite infuriating, actually. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t fascinated by you. And your pretty face didn’t hurt.”

“I found you captivating. My duty to my people was the only reason I was able to refuse you.”

“Lucky for you, I found your sense of duty rather appealing.”

He lets go of her fingers, lowering his hands below the water to rest on her belly. “Yes, lucky me,” he whispers, all manner of playfulness gone.

For the hundredth time that day, her thoughts are pulled away from everything else in her mind and narrow solely onto her child.

“I think you’ll be a wonderful father.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ll probably make a fool of myself.”

“Probably,” she giggles. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t be good. I never asked you, I tried not to wonder, but did you ever want to have a child of your own?” It doesn’t hurt her to ask now, if he said yes, she could say she’ll give him as many as he wants.

“I’d never given the idea more than a quick thought, not enough to build a want for children. But the moment Merri told you, I found that I’ve never wanted anything more. Not necessarily a child, but a child _with you_.”

“I understand what you mean. It always saddened me to think that I would never hold a child of my own, but it only ever became unbearable when I thought I would deprive you of that experience, too.”

“You _will_ hold this child, Dany.” He knows her too well, no one else would have been able to detect the fear in her voice.

She turns her head again, tilting it up to take his lips for the thousandth time that day. “I love you,” she says when she pulls away. He isn’t done though, he lifts his hand from the water to cup her face, keeping her head turned towards him, and kisses her deeper. It’s a kiss filled with want, his gentle nips at her lip cause heat to course through her body. She begins to turn, ready to have him inside her again, but he holds her still, his other hand sliding between her legs. He let’s out a groan when he feels that she’s already wet.

It was only yesterday she was in the bath alone, her insecurities floating around her, dirtying the clean water, her barrenness sitting in darkness just below the surface, ready to attack her vulnerability at every chance, it couldn’t be farther than where she was now. The change makes her feel dizzy, though she doesn’t mind because he’s here, holding her firmly in his grasp, making sure she’s okay.

\---------------

“I’ll feel you in every step I take tomorrow,” she says, her breath hot on his ear. Her words spur him on just as she probably knew they would, and he quickens his pace, the slap of their skin getting louder the closer they get to their peak. She pulls him into a messy kiss, and she groans into his mouth, no doubt tasting herself on his tongue. He lifts his body just enough to bring his hand to where they were joined, to help her over the edge. Moments later he feels her squeeze impossibility tight around him, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. The sight of her falling apart beneath him pushes him over the edge, and he spills into her after a few more thrusts.

After he catches his breath, he moves to pull himself off her, but she stops him. “Not yet, just lay here with me.” He’s more than happy to comply, resting his head between her breasts, the rapid beating of her heart bringing him peace.

It’s late into the night, their evening meal finished nearly an hour ago. _Now would be an ideal time to ask for another day,_ he thinks with a smile. He decides against it, remembering the weight of their duties. He’d never been as happy as he had been today. He still had millions of people to look after and a city to rebuild, but he allowed himself to dismiss them from his thoughts without guilt, just for today, and it had been worth it.

When her heartbeat slows to a normal pace, he lifts his head, kissing the tip of her nose before moving to lay beside her. He stays on his side, propping him head up on his elbow, staring down at her. _She’s so beautiful,_ he thinks. Especially now, with her curls messily framing her face, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes bright with happiness.

His mind briefly wanders back to the torment he’d felt this morning, he’d been successful at keeping it at bay for most of the day, though he did let it slip into his face once, and Dany had been quick to notice. _“Don’t waste your time lingering on the past, Jon. Think of the future. You, me, and our baby. That’s all that matters. Everything else is trivial.”_ As much as she was telling him to forget about it, there was forgiveness etched on her face, knowing that he needed it, and so he let her words wash over him and settle his anger with himself.

“Jon?” her voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks down to find her staring up at him, her eyes brimming with unreadable emotion.

Immediately, he assumes the worst, and he scans his eyes over her body to make sure she isn’t hurt. _I knew I was too rough._

“I’m fine,” she says firmly, the tinge of annoyance in her voice making him smile.

“What is it?”

“Do I deserve this?” Her eyes are downcast now, her voice carries a small tremble, enough for him to know her question is more than superficial. As his silence, she continues, “Any of this. The Seven Kingdoms, you, the baby?”

 _Yes,_ he wants to say, because she does. Because he loves her and wants her to have everything she desires. She’s lost so much, suffered more than anyone should for a damn crown. She paid the price.

 _No,_ he wants to say, because she doesn’t. She killed tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of innocent people. She was working to remedy the destruction she caused, she was beginning to feel a tenderness for the people, but he didn’t think she regretted her actions. Not yet. If she were anyone else, he wouldn't have hesitated taking Tyrion’s advice, he wouldn’t have hesitated in saying _No, you don’t deserve this._ The softening of her cold exterior, so different than the Queen he saw in the throne room, it gave him hope, but he didn’t know if the changed was reflected in her mind.

“You deserve to have happiness, Dany. And peace.”

 She shifts closer to him and he rolls onto his side, taking her into his embrace. She wraps an arm tightly around his torso, almost as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear.

“I’ve never known peace, Jon. Every where I go, war follows, either started by me or my enemies, but it always happens. And I don’t think it’s over. You’ve made me impossibly happy, but my happiness always comes with a price. And I never know if I’ve already paid it.”

“You have no enemies, Dany. The power to start a war lies with you, and you have the strength to stay your hand.” His words aren’t kind or sweet anymore, but he hopes she can hear the desperate love behind them. “We’re walking the path to peace, and you will know it.”

“How?”

“Because I’ll help you. I’ll hold you up if you get tired, I’ll guide you if you begin to wander, and I’ll hold your hand, so you don’t walk it alone.”

“We should quicken our pace, then. Our child deserves to know nothing but peace.”

She could mean anything by her words. She could want to leave Kings Landing tomorrow, leave the construction to be overseen by someone else and conquer the cities that have yet to see the shadow that her dragon casts, and call herself the Liberator of the World before their child draws their first breathe. She could want to stay, utilize all their resources and armies to rebuild the city at a faster pace, begin her reign in the Seven Kingdoms. He prays to any gods that would listen that it be the latter.

“Nothing but love and peace and stability. They’ll grow up safe and adored. They won’t know the fear you felt running from city to city or the shame that I did in my own home, I promise you.”

“That’s a dangerous promise, Jon. It seems almost impossible.”

“I’d say we’ve done rather well with impossible. All we have to do is help it along, stay on the path of peace.”

“You make it sound so easy.” She mumbles, and he can tell she’s drifting into sleep.

He kisses the top of her head, earning a tired smile, “It doesn’t have to be hard.”

She lets out a small snort, her eyes shut, “I suppose that’s true. You’re very wise, Jon Snow.”

When she finally succumbs to her dreams, he feels all the tension of their reality return to his body. Their day of happiness was over, and tomorrow they’d face the aftermath of what she’d done again. He would face it with a new resolve. He needed _this_ Dany, he needed her back, not just for her, or for him, but for their child. But he was only just beginning to realize that he couldn’t do it alone, he needs her help, he needs her to want it too. He needs to tell her that he had no intentions of leaving Westeros and hope that days like this would be enough to keep her here, to keep her happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, not much happened in this chapter, I know, but it was important I guess.
> 
> I did want some things to get across, the baby is obviously going to change how both of them think and act. With Dany, there's already a slight shift in her motivations and wants, at least for herself. For Jon, the baby changes the timeline of everything, he might be less soft in his approach with her because he wants her to realize what she's done more than anything else.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the later update, life's been happening. But I'm so thrilled the last chapter was well-received! I enjoy reading all of your comments, thank you for taking the time to write your opinions and encouraging words :)
> 
> Now on we go with getting these precious human beans to their happy ending.

She was different, but he had yet to conclude if it was a good or bad different. He saw more of her, his Dany, but she seemed cloaked in the Queenly persona that he feared, conquered and ruled over by the Daenerys who set fire to King's Landing, but protected by her as well, almost as if the two sides of her were merging. It left him unsettled.

In the days since Merri delivered the happy news, his worry for her had increased beyond what was reasonable, his every thought centered around her, their babe. The following morning, she had been quick to tell him that nothing would be changing, she would still go into the city to do her work and he would do his. Of course, he wanted to argue, but he knew she was right, and he trusted her men and Ser Davos to keep her safe. So instead, he let his worry fester all day, only cured when he saw her in the chambers, whole and safe and happy.

Their conversations at dinner had also shifted. When she spoke of her plans, she no longer spoke of the next day, she spoke of the next week, or the next month. Everything revolved around Kings Landing, the people. Still, he was afraid to voice his motives to her, to shatter the delicate bubble she’d seemed to trap her conquest in.

Instead, he focused on helping her establish her plans, establish the permanence in them, anything to tie them more intricately to the city. _What should we do once the ruble is cleared away?_ We’ll rebuild from the bottom, better than before, he’d answered, rebuild the sewer system and properly regulate the city’s cleanliness. _How will we keep the people occupied?_ _They’ll grow restless just huddled together._ We can give them jobs to do, compensate them, he’d said, reestablish the markets and give them the resources to start bettering their lives. _Where will we house them while all of this is happening?_ It doesn’t seem plausible to move them to Dragonstone when their help could be used here. Temporary shelters, he’d offered, like the orphanage, just until their homes are rebuilt.

She’d taken his words in stride, immediately offering compensation to the women who had helped her establish the orphanage and promising more if they continued to help her run it. She paid the men who were helping her rebuild the next one, offering them modest wages for a day’s work. Her own people, the ones who followed her from Essos, didn’t immediately accept the payments, their loyalty to her surpassing any want they had for coin. To his surprise, she had explained that money would be necessary if they wished to stay in Westeros, that simply taking what you wanted was not the way of Westeros. He didn’t think she was doing it consciously, integrating her people, but it was step in the right direction, a step in staying here.

She’d even asked him to speak to Tyrion about the sewers, explaining how he once bragged about his work on Casterly Rock. She still hated the man, but she knew his value, the wisdom he could bestow so long as it was contained and voiced through them.

That’s where he was headed now, towards the small chambers acting as Tyrion’s cell. His mood was already sour, his disdain for the man still sitting in his chest. He’d only seen him once since the council meeting, to send the ravens to the lords and ladies, and that had proved to be much of a chore. Daenerys hadn’t gone to that meeting, explaining that she feared she would kill the man herself if he so much as looked at her.

When he enters the rooms, it was clear that his presence was not expected. The little man jumps up from the bed he was laying in, his eyes wide and momentarily frightened. _Good_ , he thinks. _Best not let him get too comfortable._

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn’t know we had a meeting today,” he says with an annoying air of mocking graciousness.

“I know, I didn’t tell you. I have another task for you, you do have to earn the air you breathe, after all.”

“Please don’t forget that I would be quite alright with having it taken away.”

“I haven’t forgotten, but I can’t find it in me to care. Have a seat, Tyrion,” his tolerance for the man’s antics is nonexistent now. He walks into the room without a drop of the insecurity that Tyrion could use as a weapon. His hostility towards Dany now extended to their child, and the protectiveness he felt for them dominates any feelings of doubt that Tyrion would no doubt try to conjure up.

Thankfully, once he absorbed Jon’s tone, Tyrion swallowed down whatever quip he had lined up and takes a seat at the table. He takes a moment to look over the man, notices his unkempt beard and tattered clothes. They were giving him opportunities to bathe, and fresh clothes, and kept him as well fed as they did the people. Yet, his dejected state seemed to permeate his outward appearance. Jon couldn’t truthfully say the sight didn’t bring him a small satisfaction.

“The Queen has told me of your exemplary work on the sewer system of Casterly Rock,” Jon starts, returning the man’s mocking tone, “You’ll begin working on the city’s as well. Seeing as how it’s much bigger than Casterly Rock, it should keep you occupied for a time.”

“And how will I do that when I’m locked in this room?”

“The old maps of the city will be brought to you, as will the new plans we have. It will be your job to make ensure the transition between the old and new is replicated in the rebuilding of the sewers. Once you’ve shown me a decent plan, I’ll allow you to walk the city and flesh out the details. Heavily guarded, of course.”

“And will I be expected to rebuild the sewers on my own or will I be allowed an extra pair of hands?”

Jon lets out a sharp breath through his nose, controlling his irritation, not wanting Tyrion to have the satisfaction of riling him up. “Once you’ve shown me that you’re competent enough to come up with a plan that won’t fail, we’ll make the task known to the people, and any who offer to help, can.”

“And why would they offer? Sewers aren’t exactly an extravagant affair.”

“They’ll be given compensation for their work. I expect that’ll appeal to anybody.”

Tyrion raises his eyebrows in surprise, “I suppose it would.” It’s all he offers, but Jon hears the positive note it carries.

“We’re done here,” he starts, making his way to the door. “If there’s anything you need pertaining to the task at hand, tell your guards. The city plans will be brought to you with your midday meal.”

“Your Grace, wait,” the softness in his tone is what stops him, all arrogance is gone from his words.

He turns around reluctantly, “What?”

“Are they safe? The people?” His anger automatically flares up at his question, tempered only by the genuine concern in his voice. He tries to be fair to him, remembering that Tyrion hasn’t been in the city since the first day, hasn’t seen _her_ beyond the meeting. And Jon isn’t too desensitized to remember the horrors she caused.

“They are. Their Queen is ensuring their health and well-being.” With that, he turns away, closing the door behind him and making his way to the front gates of the Red Keep.

\---------------

He was leading a team of men through sections of the city, scouring buildings for bodies, alive or deceased. It would be the third sweep he’s performed, but they could have missed people. Some could have moved before they were spotted, only to die in a place they’d already cleared. This one was moving quicker, they didn’t need to move rocks or columns, or stop every few feet to assist anyone. It relieved him to see that they had gotten through the most gruesome part of the aftermath. Now only the healing remained.

He’d walked into a smaller building himself, encouraging the others to tackle a larger one nearby, when he heard her voice behind him. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the onslaught of insults she would throw at Dany.

“It’s quite the task, cleaning up after the Dragon Queen.”

“What do you want, Arya?”

“I’ve realized something. If you can spend nearly a fortnight in this city and not be disgusted with her, then there’s no point in waiting for you to come to your senses.”

Her belittling tone irritates him, so he doesn’t waste energy in holding back his anger, and spins quickly around, meeting her gaze, “So, what are you going to do? Drag me away from here?”

“I’m going to protect you.”

He can’t help the frustrated chuckle that escapes him, “From her? Gods Arya, If you’ve seen me in the city, you’ve seen her. Does she look like someone I need to be protected from?”

“I have seen her. I know people, Jon, and I’ve been watching her. Whatever kindness she’s showing is fragile, weak. It doesn’t absolve her of her crimes.”

“I never said it did.”

“You’re acting like it.”

“I love her, that’s what you do for people you love. You stand by them, help them, save them from themselves. You don’t abandon them or betray them.” The hurt in his voice is unintentional, and she flinches at his words, clearly offended.

“When have I ever betrayed you?”

“Not you, Sansa. But you did abandon me. You may not have left the city, but you left me.”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here _watching_. I watch her more than I watch you. Every time anger crosses her features, I grab the hilt of my sword. I’m ready. I refuse to let more people die because of her. I know you love her. I don’t understand it, but I accept it. I won’t make you make that choice. I never abandoned you, Jon, I’ve been helping.”

Halfway through her words he sees red, and his fists clench at his sides, his nails digging painfully into his palms. His words are barely controlled, the anger causing his voice to shake, “I’ve told you, I won’t tolerate any threats to her life. Did you think I wasn’t serious?”

She looks unconcerned. “Jon, it was never a threat. I was simply ensuring the safety of the people around her.”

He steps closer to her, “Arya, you will not touch her. If you do, her Unsullied will come after you, her Dothraki, her dragon, and I won’t stop them.” He feels momentarily ashamed at his words, his threat to the little sister he loved more than anyone growing up, but then he thinks of Dany, the slightest curve of her belly known only to them, and he pushes the shame away. He wouldn’t feel ashamed for ensuring the safety of his family.

Fear flashes through her stoic gaze, “You would let her kill me?”

“She isn’t the one making threats to your life, Arya. I don’t worry about her killing you because she knows I love you, she knows you’re my family.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I supposed you would, you don’t know anything about her. She knows you’re here. She’s known for days and she’s let you be.”

“I know enough about her, Jon. She’s the Mad King’s daughter and you are my brother. That’s all there is to know. I’ll make it my duty to protect you from something you can’t see.”

“Arya there is nothing for me to see, I know what she’s done.” His words aren’t as firm as they were, but he’s tired of others seeing him as foolish, blinded by love. He wants Arya to understand that it was love that made everything clear, made his duties obvious to him. “I know people have died because of her. I don’t condone it, but I love her too much to abandon her, to let her lose herself in her rage _. Please_ , don’t make me choose between you and her, because I’ll choose her.”

A brief sadness takes over her features, her indifference finally faltering, and she’s his sister again, the one not hardened by the course her life has taken. “Father would be disappointed in us, for splitting up the pack.”

“We don’t have to. She doesn’t have to be your enemy.”

“She’ll never be my ally, not after what she’s done.”

“I’m not asking you to stand behind her, I’m asking you to accept that I’ve chosen to.”

Her eyebrows furrow, her next words don’t hold the stubbornness he’s grown tired of hearing, instead they’re curious, “Why do you love her?”

“Because she’s good,” she opens her mouth to counter him, but he talks over her, “Arya, please, just listen before you tell me why I’m wrong. She’s good. She’s kind and she cares about her people. She’s saved me more times than I can count even though she didn’t need to, she came North to help us against the Army of the Dead when she didn’t need to.” He looks down, a small smile pulls at his lips when he thinks of her, “She never once called me a bastard, or thought less of me because of it. Aye, it may not be true, but she was never concerned with it, not the way others are.”

At his pause, she chimes in, her argument softer than it had been, “Jon, she came North because you bent the knee. She came after she got what she wanted.”

He begins to shake his head, her words another reminder of how he failed Dany, “She didn’t. After she rescued us beyond the wall, after her dragon was killed saving us, she vowed to help. I bent the knee after.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that?” she asks, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Do you think the truth would have been well-received? That I bent the knee when I didn’t have too? No, she suggested to keep it quiet, to protect _me_ from their anger. She suggested it even though it didn’t benefit her, because she loves me. Not that it made a difference, maybe we should have told everyone. I could have taken some of the unjust hate they directed at her.”

“You could have told us, your family. Maybe I would have been more…willing to trust her.”

“It doesn’t matter what you would have done, what you choose to do now is important. I’m asking you to trust me, to remember that I know her better than you, better than anyone else. Please, Arya, I have the whole world against me, against her, the faith of my sister wouldn’t be turned away.”

She absorbs his words before offering the tiniest shake of her head, “You can’t ask me to trust you blindly, Jon, it’s not fair.”

He nods, understanding what she means. It’s unreasonable to ask her to believe that Dany isn’t a threat, not when they’re strangers to one another. She only sees her as the Dragon Queen, not as the woman that her brother loves. For a moment he considers telling her about their child, but decides against it, he doesn’t need her to think he’s only with Dany because she’s pregnant, it would only shatter the delicate bridge they’ve started building. And he didn’t want to tell her without Dany, it was theirs, their secret that they protected every night they retired, his hand resting over hers on her belly as their dreams took them, and no one would know unless they _both_ wanted them to know.

“You would second guess everything I did tell you, Arya, but I’ll do my best, so long as you do the same. Try to watch her without your prejudices, try to understand what I see in her.”

“Fine.”

“Arya, hear me carefully,” he says, stepping carefully, towering over her, “There will be no more threats to her life. If I feel she’s unsafe, I won’t hesitate to have your sword taken and guards placed at your side. Don’t betray my trust.”

She looks unimpressed with his words, and he knows they don’t hold much weight. She doesn’t need a weapon and she could easily escape the guards, but he hopes consequence of betrayal will be enough for her to understand the seriousness of his words.

She squares her shoulders, looking him in the eye, “I won’t harm her.”

He nods, turning away to leave the building, but she stops him, “Jon, let me help you. Whatever you’re doing, I want to help.”

He considers telling her no, he doesn’t need her trailing behind him insulting Dany, but she promised to try, and so would he.

He nods again, “We’re clearing out buildings today, the final sweep before the real rebuild starts.” With that, he briskly exits the building, barely registering her lighter footsteps behind him.

\---------------

Daenerys had hoped her joy would fill her heart so fully that nothing else would be there to eat away at her, that she would finally have peace in her mind. She’d hoped it would settle her fears, outweigh her guilt, push out her anger, and replace her grief. Instead it only heightened everything. She feared that someone would take notice of her happiness and rip it away from her, as so many have done in the past. Her guilt had taken to screaming at her every moment of every day. Every time a child died in her presence, thoughts of her own babe inevitably followed, as did the promise of the debilitating and agonizing sorrow she would feel if her child died the way they did. She thought of their parents as well, the grief they must have felt. Hers was only in her head, conjured up by her own mind set on tormenting her, but theirs was real. She’d taken children away from their parents and not only did they die in pain, their parents had to continue their days without them. She knew the loss of a child, but she couldn’t bear to think of losing a child after she’d held them in her arms and watched them grow.

Her anger had shifted targets, narrowing in on herself instead of the people who didn’t understand her. Why was she angry? She didn’t know. It could be the weakness she felt when she was constantly on the verge of tears, it could be anger directed at her stubborn need to be angry at all, it could be for something else, though she won’t think it, and that angers her even more. Her grief had crossed the point of consolation. Not only was she plagued with the grief she felt in the city, but her personal grief seemed to rattle louder and more incessantly in the prison she’d locked them in, the chains growing weaker and weaker. She felt everything, she was remembering things she didn’t want to remember, thinking about people she didn’t want to think about. The losses she had experienced were making themselves known, becoming a gaping hole she could no longer ignore. She was filled with dreaded anticipation, waiting for everything to become clear, for the emotions she felt to stop fighting for dominance in her mind and join together to attack her. 

Funnily enough, her joy was also the only thing keeping everything else from overpowering her, the strongest link on the chain. Her child was holding her head above the surface, keeping the dark emotions from culminating into self-hate. Of course, Jon made her feel loved, made her feel cared for, and adored, and safe, everything she’d never had so completely and had never been given so freely. But when Jon was away from her, it was their babe growing in her womb that kept her anchored.

Ser Davos had a constant steady hand on her, ready to hold her back when her thoughts began to drift. He kept the bad from affecting her outward appearance, but he also tempered the good. She was grateful, her hand itched to caress the tiny, invisible swell, but doing so would no doubt make her condition known to others. She hated that it was a secret, she hated even more that she had no one she wanted to share the news with. Everyone she cared for, everyone who would have hugged her tightly and whispered tearful congratulations in her ear was gone.

She feels a gentle squeeze on her shoulder, and she knows it’s happened again. She blinks a few times, forcing reality to come back into focus, before she turns to him, offering an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, Ser. I know I’ve got to be slowing us down.”

“There isn’t much to be done, Your Grace. The reconstruction is well underway, I’m afraid we’d just be in the way if we watched over everything.”

At Jon’s suggestion, she’d decided to begin reconstruction on a larger section of the city, in surrounding streets of the orphanages. Until they had the proper resources, they could only lay the groundwork for the area, and she carefully saw to it that while incomplete, the buildings would still be habitable. The sick house was her next priority, the days were getting colder and she wanted to get the weakest of her people out of a cold, before sickness began to spread around the camps.

They’d been lucky so far, infections were the only thing they needed to control for the time being and the healers were doing an exceptional job of keeping it contained. The death toll was beginning to slow to a halt. Instead of dancing on the line between life and death, those who were injured were finally starting to land on a side, and she was relieved to see that life was the more common victor. _Death has already claimed its fair share, it’s only logical that life would cling to the stragglers_ , she reminds herself, pushing down the pride she feels is undeserved, and feeling the anger twitch when it goes unacknowledged.

Still, the bodies that needed to be removed from the city seemed to lessen every day, and for that she was grateful. She was even more grateful that the stares had lessened in intensity. She was no longer followed with hateful or mistrustful eyes, but she wasn’t sure she liked what had taken their place. She saw sadness, defeat, resignation. When she walked by them, they bowed their heads, not in respect but in fear. The anger always flares up the most when she’s walking past them, first at them, and then the guilt turns it in her direction. Shame is always a given. She keeps her distance, thinking it was best to give them space and allow them to watch her. Maybe the dullness in their eyes would never brighten but she wasn’t going to help it return to the vividness of hostility.

They were walking back to the courtyard outside the Red Keep, where the majority of the injured still resided. Along the borders of the courtyard, tables where set up, some designated for handing out food, some for supplies and necessities, and some for those seeking work. She smiled slightly when she saw the people lined up, all well-clothed and well-fed, a humbled determination etched in their faces. Another one of Jon’s suggestions.  _He was meant to be a King,_ she thinks, the pride she feels for him untouched by her own self-torment.

“Ser Davos, do you think this will help?” She says, gesturing towards the people lined up.

“I do believe so, Your Grace. You see, in Flea Bottom, the unemployment contributed to many of the problems. The poverty, the crime, the sickness, it’s all because people didn’t have the means to care for themselves. They have nothing to do but sit in their own filth with no hope of improvement. This initiative won’t do the job for you, but it will boost morale. Nothing makes a man feel better about himself than buying a hard-earned meal at the end day with his own money. It’s a simple pride, but even lowest deserve to feel it.”

“I agree,” she says softly, trying to convince her mind to let her feel proud of this endeavor. _It’s not my accomplishment, it’s Jon’s,_ she argues. _But he would want me to be proud_ , she aggressively counters, resenting the inadequacy she’s forcing on herself.

Ser Davos must see her inner battle playing out on her face because he gently nudges her with his shoulder, forcing her to look turn her head to look at him, “This is a good thing, You Grace, you and Jon are doing a lot more for the people than Cersei ever did. More than King Robert ever did.”

 _I’ve done more harm than either of them did, too_ , she wants to say, but the words are trapped on her tongue, her mind refusing to let them escape. Instead, she offers him a weak smile, unable to take his praise without everything it sits on, the death, the destruction, the guilt.

“Speaking of Jon…” he starts, his eyes landing across the courtyard.

If he says anything more, she doesn’t hear it, her eyes immediately followed his, suddenly desperate to see him. She spots him immediately, his heavy cloak discarded, his hair falling out of the tie she had put it in that morning, his face set in the familiar brood she’s grown to love. As if he feels her eyes on him, he looks up, trailing his gaze across the courtyard before they land on her. Determination sweeps across his features before he turns to speak the person at his right. It’s only then that she sees her, Arya. He says some words, and they’re met with an unreadable stare before the girl stiffly nods and turns to walk in the other direction, sparring Daenerys a quick glance. She doesn’t know Arya well, but she knows the looks of mistrust well enough. She’s surrounded by it, yet Arya seems to be holding strong to the hostility as well.

She doesn’t linger on the girl, instead she turns her eyes back to Jon and a small smile tugs on her lips when she sees him quicken his pace. When he finally reaches them, Ser Davos quietly excuses himself, and stepping far enough away to make it feel like they’re alone.

He looks her over quickly, relief coloring his eyes when he sees she’s alright. She wants to roll her eyes at his worry, more in amusement than frustration, but she doesn’t. He’s told her more than a handful of times that he wants nothing more than to stay by her side and keep her safe until their babe is born and every time her heart brimmed with love, wanting to hold on tightly to the protective devotion she had never been given before. They both knew it was impossible, though, and so she would allow him to appease his worry in any small way that helped, even if it made her feel like a porcelain doll.

He steps close to her, as close as he can anyway, and lowers his voice enough so their private words aren’t overheard, “Are you doing alright? You aren’t tired or hungry? I could find you something a little more substantia—”

“Jon, I’m fine,” she tells him gently, finally feeling the waves of calmness that accompany his love. All her darkest thoughts become muted, shrinking in the shadow of lightness that he brings. “We’re fine.”

Just as she knew they would, her words bring a soft, tender smile to his face. “Good,” he nods, sparing the briefest glance down at her stomach, before his eyes shoot back up and scan the area around them, worry lightly painted across his features. She isn’t worried as he is, her Unsullied are surrounding them, their eyes constantly on the move, searching for any hidden threat.

She briefly touches the back of her hand to his, a subtle movement that wouldn’t be obvious to wandering eyes, something she knows he’s worried about. When he brings his attention back to her, she quickly starts talking, wanting to distract him from his worry, “How did it go?”

“Good. We found two men, alive but only just. Grey Worm had them brought here so I suspect they’re getting the care they need. The true work begins soon, Grey Worm’s having the Unsullied gather whatever salvageable materials they can, whatever can be reused. We have to wait on major construction, just until we know there won’t be any obstacles once Tyrion begins work on the sewer systems.”

The mention of her former hand stirs the ire in her, along with the bitter sting of betrayal. “And how did that meeting go?”

“Well enough, he knows what’s required of him.” His answer is short and strong.

“Did he give you any trouble?”

“He didn’t have the chance to, I told him what needed to be done and left him to do it. I found it best not to linger, he feels the need to fill silences.”

She nods, the hurt overtaking the anger as memories of the little man’s quips and stories, the ones that used to make her laugh, tickle the edge of the storm cloud habiting her mind. _That isn’t him anymore, he betrayed me. He tried to have me killed, tried to have my child killed_. And with that, the hurt is crushed down and her moment of weakness is behind her.

She wants to say more but holds her tongue. Her people don’t need to see anger on her face, she can’t feed into their fear.

“And you? How are the children?”

A ghost of her smile plays on her lips as she thinks on the small fraction of her people that look to her with kindness, “They’re alive, thriving. I’m afraid our work has slowed to a halt, at least until the others arrive, so I think I should begin…extending my hand to the others, the men and women.”

A worried look crosses his face, he knows the uncertainty that fills her when she think about her other subjects, the ones who know she’s responsible for their losses, the ones who are less likely to let a few afternoon treats sway their opinion of her. She thinks she understand them better now, understands the powerlessness of them. After the near fortnight of watching them, helping them, she saw that they needed guidance in everything they did. They needed others to offer help because they wouldn’t ask for it. It infuriated her at first, their unwillingness to fight for anything, but she tried with everything she had to understand it, to realize that under the rule of tyrants, they’d grown used to poverty. They weren’t like the former slaves she’d saved. All she needed to do then was give them the means to liberate themselves and the promise to be their champion should the masters resist. But Cersei wasn’t a slaver, and they weren’t slaves. They didn’t suffer the cruelties that the former slaves did, they simply existed under the rule of Cersei, bending to her will no matter how it affected them, no matter what it deprived them off. But Cersei had ruled with fear, she stripped the people of their will until they were nothing but mindless subjects without motivation or initiative to do what they should.

Once again, a deep gratitude fills her heart, Jon’s advice has yet to fail her. In truth, his suggestions have exhausted her at every turn, the heaviness of the duty they required left invisible marks all over her body. Her shoulders felt bruised by their grip, her back sore from their weight, and yet the relief she felt in the brief moments she’d fulfilled even a small part of them made it all worth it. It made her feel like she used to, when her faith in herself was unbreakable.

Her eyes move back to the people lined up to find work, her uncertainty changing to determination with the reassurance that what they were doing was working. None of them had to be there, neither she nor Jon had commanded it, and they would still receive food and clothes at the crown’s expense if they chose not to. Yet they were there, waiting to be given a job to do, waiting to earn coin for their labor. Already, the people where climbing out from under Cersei’s oppressive hand, reclaiming the agency they’d let be taken away from them.

“Would you like me to walk with you?”

“No, thank you. I need to do this on my own. It would be too easy to grow dependent on your presence.” 

He smiles at her words, “I’ll be here, though, remember that. You don’t need to do it alone if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” she replies softly, looking into his eyes and hoping he understands how essential his words are, how much the reassurance holds her steady.

“I suppose I should get back, then, I need to speak to Rhako.”

She had just named Rakho, along with a few others, one of her new bloodriders. He was well-learned in the common tongue and the Dothraki respected him enough to follow his orders. “Are the Dothraki causing trouble?”

“No, but now that much of the hard labor is done, he wants to discuss what they’re to do next with Grey Worm and I, that way we don’t leave any duty neglected.”

She nods in understanding, “Please see to it that the streets will be sufficiently patrolled, near the children and the sick house especially.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I supposed I’ve delayed long enough, we should get back to work,” she says, some nerves making their way back into her voice.

He gives her a smile, one that shows his unwavering faith and his inviolable love for her, and it gives her the strength to face the next obstacle head-on.

\---------------

“Is it healing alright?” She asks, her voice soft and gentle, concerned.

The older woman is eerily detached in her response, her voice drenched in tired defeat, “Yes, Your Grace.”

She tries again to elicit a response colored with something other than the pale, dull tone she carries now, “The healer said it would have no lasting effect on your health?” She inquires, a hopeful inflection in her words.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Whatever your trade, I’m sure we’ll have need of it in the coming months. Once you’re fully healed, the crown will see to it that you’ll have work. Should you want it, of course.” She hopes the promise of employment will lift the woman’s spirits. Instead, it seems to have the opposite effect.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” she says, bitterness leaking into her words. “But I doubt you’ll have much use for a seamstress with one hand.”

Daenerys closes her eyes, though the anger is a small flicker of heat compared to the remorse that fills her. She can’t be angry at this woman, this woman was a seamstress, and when Daenerys uttered the word _Dracarys_ , this woman was spared her life, but lost her hand, her livelihood. _Was that really so much better?_

“Well…I’m sure you have other talents? Any skills you have would be welcome.”

“A seamstress doesn’t have much else to learn besides keeping account of their purse.”

“Not many people have that skill, I would be happy to seek out someone who would have need of it.”

She lets out a weak, exasperated snort, “Your Grace, I mean no offense, but I’ve worked for myself a near forty years now, and I worked _hard_ for that privilege, and now that’s all gone. My shop, my home, the little I had saved. I can’t work my way up again, especially with one hand. It’ll take longer than forty years this time and I don’t believe I have that long.”

“So, what will you do?” Daenerys asks quietly.

“You’ve said the crown will provide food and shelter to those who need it?” Daenerys nods. “Then I suppose I’ll live out my days at the crown’s expense.” Her words are stripped of the pride she had only moments before, speaking of the years of her hard work. She loathes what her future holds, hates the dependency it requires. Perhaps one of the few people in the city who managed to cling to their will only to have it taken by Daenerys in one afternoon.

 _I’ve helped some and ruined others_ , she thinks bitterly. She can never feel happy for long. Her mind felt as eager to strip her of happiness as it did to tease her with it.

She has a sudden, overwhelming urge to help this woman, to promise anything so long as the dignity returns to her voice and her years of work don’t blow away with the ashes.

“Were you an employer?”

“No, Your Grace, it was just me and my little shop. I lived above it. Small, but it was mine.”

“Were you well-respected?”

“One of the best. People sought my work months in advance.”

“We’ll build you another shop,” she says, not knowing if it’s a reckless vow, but determined to see it through. “And others will work for you. Forty years of experience, you must have wise advice to give to any new seamstress. You’ll run the shop, keep the books, people will come to you for your experience and the work will be done by those wanting to earn the respect and experience you have.”

The woman gives her a smile, not quite condescending, but one that tells her she doesn’t believe it’ll be that simple, “And what makes you believe they won’t stay a few months and then run and open their own shop? It’s everyone goal in the end, being independent.”

“They wouldn’t be able to sustain it, it took you forty years. Working for you reassures others that their garments will be looks after with a skilled eye, and the work might be just as good. You haven’t lost everything, you still have your reputation and it would be a shame if you let that earned distinction go unused,” The growing hope in her voice does make her feel a bit naïve, but it’s a drastic change from the heaviness she constantly feels, and so she embraces it.

The woman has another tentative smile playing on her lips, perhaps it’s a consequence of Daenerys’ own enthusiasm, but it does make her feel better.

“Why would you help me, Your Grace? Other have similar stories, I’m sure. You can’t make these promises to everyone.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I am the Queen, and so I will. I can’t restore everything as it once was, but I can get you as close as I can. You won’t lose forty years of your life.”

The woman offers her a more genuine smile, though something is lurking, defeat is still in her face, _sadness_ is hidden in her eyes.

Instead of pulling at it anymore, Daenerys chooses to leave their interaction at that. Before the reason for her defeat is apparent and the reason behind her sadness is exposed. _I’m helping, that should be enough,_ she tells herself.

“I’ll be back, perhaps in a few days’ time, and we can discuss this further,” she says, standing up the chair beside the cot the woman was currently resting on.

“Of course, Your Grace, I’m sure you have much to do.”

With that Daenerys exits the cramped tent, which housed a little more people than it should have, but a small winter storm had swept through the city a few nights prior, and she wanted people out of the cold. Once she’s outside she breathes in the cold, crisp air, before making her way to the next tent over, her Unsullied guards right on her toes.

When she walks in, she quickly realizes this tent was designated for men, as many of them look up when she makes her way in. Her guards immediately close the little distance between them, and she can almost feel the grasps on their spears tighten. There’s an awkward silence that hangs in the air, mixing with the coppery scent of blood, the musty smell of bodies packed together, and the putrid odor of rotten flesh. Though she’s more prepared for the smell after she’d been subjected to it in the previous tent, her stomach still flips in distaste at it. Some of the men are laying still, their eyes peacefully closed with sleep, others are looking at her with a tinge of worry, some with open hostility, and some look at her like Randyll Tarly once did, like she was a foreign invader who was there to sully their traditions and erase their history.

As her eyes scan the small area, she meets the gaze of one man sitting up against the pillows on his cot. The right side of his body is wrapped tightly in gauze stained with the faint pink color of blood and splotchy with the dirty yellow of infection. She decides he’s safe enough to talk to. _Because he doesn’t look like he’d confront me,_ she thinks, mocking her own decision. _When did Daenerys Targaryen become concerned with the opinions of others?_

“Hello, sir. Are your injuries healing well?” She asks once she’s beside his bed, her eyes narrowing in on a particularly dark spot of yellow. “We’ll see to it that you get a set of fresh, clean dressings before the day is over, yes?”

When he answers, his disdain for her is apparent, much more aggressive than she’d expected, “If you think so, Your Grace.”

She would be getting short answers again, she realizes. Perhaps she can coax a smile from him as well. She takes a seat in the chair beside the cot as determination settles in her spine.

“Do you have need of anything else, food or water?”

“No, Your Grace, I’m well taken care of.” he replies, his jaw becoming more set with tension.

There’s an uncomfortable lull before she’s finally able to respond, “Do you know if you’ll be healed soon? The extend of your injuries?”

“Healer says I’ll be up and walking in a fortnight, once the skins healed over.”

“That’s good,” she replies a little too enthusiastically, happy to narrow in on a topic. “Once you’re able, I’ll see to it that you find work, should you want it.”

“Cleaning up the destruction you caused?” he bites back, just enough to cause her guards to step closer to her. She holds up a hand to them as the man continues to speak. “That’s rather cruel of you, Your Grace, to destroy a city and murder people only to have their family rebuild it all.”

Her hand curls in her lap, and she resist the urge to bite back, because nothing he’s said is false.

“Those who work are being compensated for their labor. You will be too, whatever your trade.” She replies stiffly, knowing it’s a blanket response, a cowardly one.

He only stares at her, the hate growing in his eyes.

She searches her mind for something she can say, something that will wash away the hostility pointed at her. _What would make him smile? What makes me smile?_

“And, of course, while you’re healing, the crown will be more than willing to ensure the care of your family as well. Do you have a family, sir? A wife or children?”

If possible, his hate grows darker, enhanced by the tears that well up in his eyes. “I did, Your Grace,” he starts, and she closes her eyes and looks down. _No, please. Don’t say it._ “My wife was in our home with our daughter, whether they were burned or crushed first, I’m not sure, I never saw the bodies, you see. My son, I believe he was at the schoolhouse. I tried to get to him first, but the building was already in flames when I got to it.”

“Sir—”

“You did that. You killed my wife and my children. And now you’re telling me you’ll give me money to clean up your mess as if it’ll fix anything?” The utter hatred he has for her is obvious, the grief he feels rolls of him, and she knows it’s more painful than his physical injuries. Hs words are simple, but she can hear everything else he wants to say behind them. _You took my home, you murdered my family, you ruined my life. You are not my Queen._

Her nails are digging harshly into her skin, and she sees her knuckles white through the sting of tears. _Why am I crying?_ She feels anger, but at who? She feels defeated. She feels devasted. She feels weak.

She quickly stands up, unable to meet the man’s eyes as she steps away from the cot. _Why am I afraid of him? I’m a Queen, he’s my subject._ She’s desperate to leave, because she knows the answers to her questions are somewhere in the overcrowded thoughts, waiting for her to focus just long enough so they can finally spring forward.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir. I have much to do today. I’ll see to it that you get clean bandages.” If she can hear the trembling in her words, he could too. She curses herself for losing her composure, for allowing it to slip through.

Outside the tent it isn’t much better. She’s afraid to look around, afraid to meet someone else’s eyes and know that they have similar stories. Instead of continuing down the row of tents, she turns to go back to the orphanages, where she knows she’ll be better received. _Only because they don’t know what I’ve done, they don’t understand._ Still, while their kindness to her is innocent, ignorant, she needs to feel it. She needs to settle the storm threatening to drown her mind, though it’s beginning to feel inevitable.

The whole way there, she mocks her decision, her weakness. _Am I really afraid of what others think of me? Or what I think of me?_

\---------------

Something happened, he could tell with the way her smiles don’t meet her eyes, the way her insecurities, so well-hidden and buried deep since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, were dug up, sitting just beneath the surface, and she didn’t make an effort to hide it from him as she had before. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but maybe she didn’t want that. Was it left exposed intentionally, or was it something she couldn’t fight anymore? What had made her strong walls crumble? What was keeping them down?

He feels her shift beside him, pulling him from his worry. They’d taken to eating their supper in bed sometimes, the revelation of her pregnancy made him want to touch her every moment he could, to feel her and know that she was real. Spending nearly an hour at arm’s length every night when they had no reason to seemed like unnecessary torture. 

“You said Arya wasn’t speaking to you.” There’s an accusatory note in her words, though he knows her well enough to see that it comes with the vulnerability.

He moves the arm he has laid over her shoulders down and twines their fingers together. She’s grips his tightly and it doesn’t feel like a loving gesture, it feels possessive, worried, desperate.

He leans his head down and places a gentle kiss on her temple, breathing in the sweet scent of her silver tresses.

“She snuck up on me today, while I was alone.”

“And? I don’t suspect she had kind words for you. About me.”

He hesitates to answer, not wanting to push her deeper into her unsureness, but decides that it would be insulting to coddle her. She’s stronger than that.

“She didn’t.”

“What did she say?” Her voice is timid and sad, so unlike the Dragon Queen he’d come to know.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“But it came from _her_. She’s your sister, your family.”

“She is, and I let her say her piece. But my family has failed me more recently than most, their words don’t hold much weight. And _you_ are my family. You and our child. I’ve told you before, I will choose you over anyone else, without question.” he doesn’t mean to sound so hard, but she needs to know the strength he holds in their love, the certainty that allows no room for doubt, has no patience for it.

“Does she hate you too, now?” she asks, staring intently at their joined hands, the small plate of food on her lap forgotten.

“No, I don’t think she does. We talked, came to an understanding.”

“And what understanding was that?” Her tone has changed, not quite detached but close. Numb.

“She won’t touch you. So long as I feel she isn’t threat, we won’t bother her. But Dany, the moment you feel unsafe, tell me if you think she’s the reason, please.”

“What does she want in return?”

“She wants to be my sister. She wants me to trust her. I told her I would try, only if she would.”

“Is that why she was walking with you?”

“Yes, she asked if she could help.”

“If she earns your trust, she can turn you against me. Tyrion almost succeeded, your sister would have much better luck.” Her words frustrate him, and he almost snaps back at her, at her lack of faith in him, but he can hear the sudden tears in them, the fear.

He sighs, and pulls their hands in, to the nearly undetectable swell of her belly. They can both feel it, the precious life just beneath their clasped hands, already so cherished, so loved. He holds her tighter, pressing his lips to her temple again, whispering his next words fiercely. “You, me, and our baby. Nothing in my life has ever made me happier and I would be a fool to risk it. I don’t know what else I can say, Dany. I love you, more than anyone. I can’t fight it and I won’t try to. Like you said, we’re inevitable.”

She turns her head into his shoulder, hiding her face, the grip on his hand becoming painfully tight. “Why do you love me?”

“Because you’re good. You helped me when no one else would, when I gave you nothing in return. Because I know you have a kind heart and that you want to help people,” he replies ardently, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Those are just the reasons he fell in love her with her, but there are other things that pulled him deeper, things he’d experienced after he knocked on her cabin door. “Because you’re the only person who’s been able to make me smile in years. I didn’t feel worthy of you before, but you’ve made me feel important. You’ve made me feel loved, truly loved.”

“How do you know I’m good? You’re the only person I have left, Jon. The only person who thinks I’m good. How can you be right and everyone else be wrong?”

“Because I know you like no one else does.”

“Everyone else isn’t blinded by love like you are.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t tell me my feelings are wrong, don’t tell me what I should feel. Enough people already have, I can’t have you doing it too. _I_ know what I feel. I know _why_ I feel what I feel. Love isn’t blinding me from anything.”

They’re so close to where they need to be, to what needs to be said. He can tell her now, what he feels about what she’s done. What he feels about what she wants to do. Perhaps she doesn’t want to hear it, no matter how much she seems to be trying to get him to say it. Maybe hearing it would break her heart. But she’s stronger than even he thinks. And he would be here to help her piece it back together.

“What you did…I hate it. It was horrible, Dany. When I saw the first flames touch the city, I wanted to hate you for it. They surrendered and you still did it. And you _kept_ doing it,” she tries to pull away from him, but he holds her tighter, kisses her temple again, strokes her belly with his thumb, keeping her of where they are now and not where they had been. “I tried to hate you. Walking through the streets, seeing the people you killed, the _children_ , it was easy to hate the person who had done that.”

He feels a few hot tears splash against his shirt, but she stays quiet.

“When I saw you, though, I only felt sad, devastated. Like you’d burned along with everyone else. I felt like I’d lost you. I had, in a way. The woman I met on Dragonstone would have never done that. The woman who went North and saved the Realm would have never done that. When you spoke to your Unsullied, the Dothraki, it didn’t sound like you. In the throne room when I…it wasn’t you. You were there, somewhere, I could see it. I failed you, like everyone else you trusted, but I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t abandon you, not while you were still in there.”

“It _was_ me. I did that, Jon,” she finally replies, her words bitterly angry, though he suspects her ire isn’t directed at him. “Maybe you _should_ hate me. Maybe you should have killed me.”

“How can you say that?” he asks in disbelief, pressing their hands firmly into her belly.

“We didn’t know. I did everything you said, everything you hated. I burned children. The only reason you didn’t do it is because you love me.”

“Isn’t that reason enough? If I did what you did, would you be able to kill me?”

“You never would have done it, no matter what happened to you before, no matter what pushed you right to the edge, you would have been strong enough to resist stepping over it. You’re too good.”

“But if I had?” 

“I could never kill you.”

“Then what makes you think I could kill you? I regret so much of what I’ve done, what I didn’t do, how much I handled so poorly. But I have _not once_ regretted my actions that day.”

She finally lifts her head from his shoulder and looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and swimming in grief, her nose reddened. He wastes no time and leans down to claim her lips, comfort her the way lovers do. When he pulls away, she lowers her head again, sighing into his neck.

“We’re being selfish. For so long my life has belonged to my people, why should it be different now? The Realm wants me dead. You’re perhaps the only person who would be able to do it, and yet here we are. I feel safe with you, the one man who holds everything, who could take it all away.”

“It is selfish. But my selfishness hasn’t causes anymore death, so I don’t feel particularly bad about it.”

“That doesn’t make me good,” she replies.

She won’t believe him, he realizes. It’s a step forward, yet the pain it’s causing her makes him hate it all the same.

“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly.

She’s quiet for a moment, turning over his words. _What if she said no?_ The very thought scared him beyond words. If she said no, after everything she’d seen, his faith in himself would begin to crumble, he would begin to question his ability to help her. Maybe he isn’t enough. _What else does she need?_

“I don’t know.” She finally says.

It’s not an ideal answer, but it’s honest, and it isn’t _no_. That alone is enough to calm his nerves.

“Would you do it again?” She wants to, it’s her plan, the way she plans on conquering the world. If she’s questioning her actions now, maybe she’s questioning everything else, her means and motives. He feels cruel for wanting it, for wanting her to question everything, wanting her outlook to become muddled until she can’t recall what it was anymore. Until she thinks of it and abhors it.

“I don’t know.” She repeats, though this time its quieter, defeated. He closes his eyes in take a deep breath of relief. Not knowing is as good as a _no_ in his eyes. At the very least, it means she would hesitate before she committed the same atrocity and he would be there to talk her away from the edge this time, not help to push her over. It wouldn’t happen again, any of it.

“Jon?”

“Hmmm?”

“Don’t let me do it again.” Her words are stronger, fragmented, the grief still peeking out through large cracks, but stronger, almost whole.

 _You won’t do it again. You’re coming back to me, away from the drop that would swallow you whole, kill you entirely._ He wants to say it, but he knows that isn’t what she wants to hear. She’s seeking out help, reaching her hand out blindly and hoping he’ll grip it tightly and never let go.

“I won’t.”

_I don’t want to leave Westeros. Nobody else needs to be liberated, nobody else needs to call you their Queen. We can be here. We can be happy._

If he says those words now, he would be voluntarily holding her under when she’s already struggling to hold her head up, he would be adding more for her to gasp through and claw her way out of. If he doesn’t say it now, he would be holding a truth back from her as he had been for almost a fortnight, a fact that makes him more uneasy as the days passed.

He decides against it, thinking it would be better to continue as they are, her making her way back to him, following the comfort of his words and his touch at her own pace. If he yanked on her, pulled her too quickly, it wouldn’t really work. Perhaps she would stay her hand, postpone, but only to appease him. Every minute he would question how she felt, if she was as she used to be or just the Conqueror tempered. No, she needed to see the reasons laid out before her, not have them pass her in a blur because he was impatient.

 _I will not hold back anymore, though,_ he thinks. _I can’t shy away from it in the comfort of these walls._

“What happened today?” he asks.

She abruptly pulls away from him and untangles her hand from his, moving the ignored plate to the table beside the bed, before turning her body to face his, not touching him. “There was this man, injured, in one of the tents. I went to speak to him, to ask him if there was anything more we could do. I told him he would be able to find work after he’s healed well enough, and that we’d take care of him and his family until then,” she looks down and starts picking at the edge of the blanket, dividing her focus before she continues speaking. He knows what she’s going to say. “I killed them, his wife and his children.”

He’s quiet, thinking of how to respond, what to say. _Don’t hold back_. “I would never forgive the person who took you away from me.”

She takes a shaking breath, eyes still downcast, “I couldn’t either. I would want that person dead. I would want them dead at my hand. It’s not just him, Jon. Everyone in the city, I’ve taken someone away from them. If they’re anything like him them I will never have the love of the people. You said it would be difficult, slow-moving, but I think it’s impossible. Maybe their love is a lost cause.”

_Let it be fear._

_No, no, no_. he thinks desperately, _she doesn’t believe that. She doesn’t give up that easily._ Still, her words aren’t without reason. She seems to have realized the reality of the people’s emotions before he has. They might not ever love her, and it breaks his heart. She deserves love more than anyone he’s ever known. Perhaps he’s been too hopeful, too optimistic, even to himself.

“I won’t lie to you,” _or myself,_ “I don’t suspect you have much love from the people, Dany. They’re hurting, mourning, and they all know why. It’s a truth we can’t escape or ignore. It’s possible that they’ll never forgive you for it, I don’t think he will. But it’s your duty as Queen to allow them that freedom. You can spend your life apologizing to them by ensuring a future that isn’t so bleak. It might not ever be enough for some, but you can’t blame them, all you can do is not give up on them or abandon your duty. A Queen must love her people.”

“You believe it too, then? That I’ll never have their love?”

He sits up and pulls her to him, bringing her legs to drape across his lap, instinctively reaching for her hand again, “I never said that, I think it’s possible, for some at least. But no ruler ever had the love of all the people.”

“Tyrion said that to me once.”

“One of the few times he was right, then.”

She quirks her lips up in quick smile, “I suppose there was truth in his words.”

“Besides, some do love you already. The chil—”

“The children don’t know what I’ve done. They know me as the lady who gives them warm clothes and beds and sweets. They’ll learn, one day. How can they still smile at me after they know?”

“Maybe they won’t. Or maybe they’ll remember what you’ve done since, all the ways you’ve tried to make amends. Latch on to their love, nurture it, don’t ever do anything to compromise it. Continue to offer those little kindnesses, even after they know, after they may hate you.”

“The kindnesses aren’t nearly enough to outweigh everything else.”

“No, but they’re indicative of your efforts. Dany, I said it wouldn’t be easy, and maybe it is in vain, but you can’t stop trying.”

She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, bringing her hand up to trace his scar over his shirt. “Would you think bad of me if I did stop trying?”

“No, you’ve already done the worst thing you could’ve ever done,” he flinches at his own words, the bluntness of them. He feels her do the same. “and I still love you. But I would be disappointed. I never knew you to give up so easily.”

“I hate this, Jon. I hate feeling weak. I hate that I care so much about having their love. It would be so much easier to ignore that part of me, the part that craves their approval.”

“Don’t do that. I think you need to feel it. I think you ignored that part the day you burned the city.”

“Ruling over a country that doesn’t want me…I guess I deserve nothing less. I’ve grown used to being labeled a foreigner everywhere I go. I just hoped…I wanted to belong somewhere, feel welcomed in the country I was born. I wanted to have a home.”

“You belong with me. I might not be a whole country, but I’ll love you enough for the lot of them. I’ll be your home, me and our babe.”

She sighs into his neck, though even in that he can hear the sliver of amusement. “You’re too good to me.”

“I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jon Snow. You seem to have more faith in me than I have in myself, especially now. I need that. Please don’t ever lose faith in me.”

“Please don’t every give me reason to.” _Please don’t burn anymore cities to the ground, please stay here._

“I hope I don’t.”

Their conversation, as much at it pained him and caused his heart to stay uncomfortably constricted and a lump to take root in his throat, lifted his spirits immensely. He still feels like a coward, holding off on the words he needed to say the most, but he took comfort in the fact that her own never alluded to a future beyond Westeros. She seemed focused on Kings Landing and the woes that came with holding dominion over a city, not a world.

He didn’t have much time, though. He would need to tell her before everyone arrived, before she told them of her future vision and they went along with it, or worse, encouraged it. They needed to be of the same mind when they presented the future of the Seven Kingdoms to the Lords who would help see it through.

They fall quiet, both sitting with their own thoughts, he mindlessly runs his finger through the soft waves down her back. She sits still, occasionally placing light kisses on his neck and shoulders.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there before her stomach rumbles, slicing through the heavy atmosphere with some much-needed lightness.

They both chuckle at the sound, and she lifts her head away from him, swinging her legs across his body to shift closer the table and grab the plate of food.

“Can I grab you another serving?” he asks, eyeing the plate with a half-eaten roll and a few slices of sausage.

“Yes, please. This child has me wanting food every hour,” she relies with equals parts happiness and annoyance.

He pulls himself from the bed and makes his way over to the little dining table in the room, grabbing the rest of the food brought up to them. As he turns back around and sees her staring at him with the same adoration he knows is reflected in his expression, he’s once again struck by the love he has for her. Despite everything she’s done, all the missteps they’ve both taken, they’re here now, sharing a bed, betrothed, expecting a child, _together_. Nothing is perfect, in fact very little is, but _this_ , this is what holds him together. This is perfect. They would build their future out from this, this happiness and this love.

As he climbs back into the bed, she grabs the plate from his hand and begins to pick that the food, her impatience making him chuckle.

The heaviness of their previous conversation sits just above them, masking itself in the dark drapes of the canopy, but it leaves them alone. It’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes, but he’s happy to ignore its presence for the rest of the evening and just look at her.

\---------------

She slowly walks down the halls of the Red Keep, the fading light of the sun casting a soft glow over the fragmented edges of the still-standing walls, drained from the day’s activities. Physically, she was fine, her feet no longer ached at the end of the day, but the constant swirl of conflicting emotions in her mind left her eyes sore and her head aching. The weight of her duties had become a daily companion, and she had no choice but to become stronger to bear the weight of them, with Jon or Ser Davos always near to shoulder some of it if she became overwhelmed. She would be lost without them.

After that first day in the tents, she forced herself to spend any time she could spare with the men and women who hated her. Not all of them did, some were too afraid, others merely indifferent, but hate seemed to be the one she felt the most.

She let them hate her, let their hate scratch and claw at her knowing that Jon wouldn’t let her bleed out. He was there every night to sooth the wounds.

She stopped hoping for their love, she felt foolish thinking it was possible at all, for thinking their hate was dwindling. She stopped striving for it and instead she worked for their indifference. The notion, far less daunting than turning hate into love and praise, didn’t relieve her as much as she though it would. It only saddened her, stirring doubt in her mind more often than she’d like.

And of course, it angered her. She shouldn’t doubt anything, she was Daenerys Targaryen. Her strength had always come from her faith in herself and she felt it slipping away, and she made no attempt to hold on to it, knowing it would do no good, that it would weaken her quicker.

More than anything, she felt resignation. Jon, her sweet love, was still hopeful, naively so. But hearing how she’d ruined lives by the people she had liberated, she could no longer stand behind her choice with conviction, but she still stood behind it, she had no other option. The alternative frightened her, threatened to strip her of everything she’d built, all her titles and accomplishments and her strength. She knew it wasn’t an empty threat.

She was tired, exhausted from fighting the onslaught of waves determined to drown her, but she stubbornly refused to let herself see the source of the waves, why the storm in her head wouldn’t let up. She knew why, but she couldn’t think it, couldn’t let herself stop thrashing against the currents long enough to make sense of it.

She couldn’t tell Jon any of this, he thought the world of her. What would he say when she revealed that she didn’t want to regret her actions? That she wanted more than anything to feel nothing again, to not face the real, raw consequences of her actions? He would hate her for it, she knew, no matter how many times her reassured her that nothing would change how he felt. Who could love someone like that? Especially someone as good as Jon, the opposite of her in every way?

He believed wholeheartedly that she wasn’t herself that day, that the losses she’d suffered in so short a time had clouded her judgment, made her do the unthinkable. But she wasn’t sure if he was right. She wanted to believe it, it would make her feel less hopeless if she believed that wasn’t who she was, but she wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything.

When she arrives at their chambers, she sees him standing near the table of the food already brought up, still fully dressed, and she smiles at him, ready to feel his comforting and supportive words fill her and prepare her for the next barrage of attacks she would suffer the next day. Her smile falls when he his returning smile doesn’t meet his eyes, and his face settles in a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, worry coloring her words. _Everything is wrong, because of me. I’ve been a thorn in his side more than anything else._

He shakes his head, brushing aside whatever was plaguing his mind.

The next smile he gives her is more familiar, sweet and wholesome, drenched in loved. She feels unworthy of it.

He ignores her question, “How was your day?”

“Same as yesterday, and the day before.” She responds, walking slowing into the room, towards him.

“How is the sick house coming along?”

“Well enough, I suppose. The right wing of the building was completed today, Ser Davos is seeing to it that the those with the most severe injuries are moved into it tonight.” She says, stopping in front of him, searching his face for the worry she knew was there.

“That’s good, I’m sure they’ll be grateful for it.”

“They’d be more grateful if none if this was happening,” she replies, not able to pretend that reality is playing in her favor. “What’s wrong, Jon?”

He sighs loudly, looking down at his hands, for a moment, thinking hard on something.

When he looks up, his eyes are frightened and unguarded. “We got a raven today, the Greyjoy fleet will be arriving in a few days’ time, along with them come the Dornish. I expect we’ll receive news of the others’ impending arriving soon.”

She becomes confused. _Why does that worry him? He knew they were coming._

“Anything from the North? She hasn’t responded. To anything.”

They’d received responses from most of the lords, some more hostile than others, but all acquiescing to her summons and taking steps to bring what was needed. The North remained silent.

“Nothing. If we still have no words after the meetings with everyone else, I’ll send men North to bring her here. She’ll meet with us whether she wants to or not.”

“If she won’t be showing up, perhaps we should have Arya there to represent the North.” The girl’s presence around Jon made her feel uneasy, but she would try for him.

He raises his brows in mild surprise. “I suppose she wouldn’t object to that.”

“Good. Now, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

He steps closer to her, pulls her tightly to him, encircling her waist with one hand and softly stroking her cheek with the other. “I love you, Dany, more than anything. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, for us.”

His words, meant to calm her, reassure her, only make her heart beat painfully with worry. “Jon?”

“Daenerys, we can’t leave Westeros. I don’t want to liberate the world. I don’t want what you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does that count as a cliffhanger? lol
> 
> So, Daenerys is well on her way to rock bottom. It'll be rough when she finally reaches it. I hope her emotional state isn't too confusing or hard to follow. I can try to clear things up if anyone has questions :) I decided all of season 8 characters were not themselves, so I extended this redemption to Arya. A bit. Can't let one season ruin all the good characters.
> 
> Lastly, hit me up on tumblr (eleanorrose05) if you wanna chat! I'm on their constantly avoiding real life responsibilites :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's 22k yall. Hope you enjoy :)

His words caught her off guard, her mind rapidly trying to piece together what they meant.

_We can’t leave Westeros._

For the briefest moment she was confused at his words, leaving Westeros had been the furthest thing from her weighted mind. She had no room for it and so she simply packed it away without a second thought. The notion didn’t rattle nearly as loud as it’s prison mate, in fact it hadn’t pulled against the bars at all. She hadn’t mentioned it to him since that day in the throne room, her only day in the throne room, now that she thinks of it.

_I don’t want to liberate the world._

The phrase itself was daunting, she was exhausted and defeated just hearing it said aloud. She knew she had said it that day, but she couldn’t remember what made her say it _. I do remember_. That’s when she had been sure of herself, proud of herself, had unflinching faith in herself. She’d taken the Seven Kingdoms just like she’d promised so many of her faithful followers. But she was also swimming in blind power, she didn’t see the people just passed her proud Unsullied and her cheering Dothraki, she chose not the see them. She’d taken the city, liberated the people from Cersei’s tyranny and the sitting in the aftermath was bending the rigid pillar of beliefs she held to keep her going, she was sure it would break before she was able to move onto the next city.

_I don’t want what you want._

She knew the string of phrases belonged together, but she picked them apart, nonetheless. Her heart shattered into a million pieces and fell to her feet at the implications of those words, littering her body with painful cuts as they fell _. What does she want?_ Him, their baby. When she thought of her future now, she only pictured Jon holding a small bundle in his arms, with gentle and pure love in his eyes as he looked down at their child. She hadn’t once extended those dreams beyond that perfect vision. She never pictured the room, let alone the people or the city or the country just outside of it. _When did that happen? When did my future ambitions become so narrowed?_

Her mind clung to the last sentence, already preparing her for the worst, swelling with a deep breath before it inevitably knocked her over in a harsh gust of air. Her grief must have been plain on her face because she feels his arm tighten on her waist pulling her to him. She hadn’t realized she’d taken a step away.

“No, not…Dany,” he pauses to dip his head with a frustrated sigh, pressing the back of his hand into his brow. She holds in her panic, eager for him to explain what all his words mean. She steps back again, pulling his hand from his face and holding it between both of hers, feeling his arm slip of her waist to land by his side.

“What do you mean?” To her own ears, she sounds more controlled than she had in days, as if she was already steeling herself for a deep cut.

He stares down at their hands again and she grows impatient. She squeezes it slightly. “Jon?”

“I…you want to liberate the world. Continue to ‘break the wheel’ as you put it. I never agreed, but I never said otherwise, I let you think that I wanted the same.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

She pulls her hands away from his, unable to focus when his starts to tremble. She feels her mind, the ever constant rotation of thoughts and feelings and fears, come to a full stop as she reads the subtext of his words. _I lied_. Everything that’s happened since then, his confession, his proposal, his hand pulling hers towards her belly, vanishes from her head, as if they never existed. She can’t stop herself from turning so quickly, can’t rationally explain to herself that all of those events were rooted in truth, instead she tells herself that she needs to step back from all that to absorb his words without being hurt by them. She feels a calmness wash over her as her protective armor traps everything in, keeping even the darkest and most self-deprecating thoughts protected as she faces Jon’s lie.

Strangely, his confession itself isn’t her focus, in fact she’s surprised at how little she cares about what he’d actually said. She was unconcerned by it. But he lied, from the first moment of their reign. She believed that the course of the rest of their lives began in that throne room, no matter how much they had deviated from her own words that day. _What else could he have lied about? What else was I unable to see? He begged for my trust, my forgiveness, all while letting me believe we’d do this together._

What was ‘this’ anymore? She didn’t know, she didn’t want to sit with that question right now.

“Is there anything else?” She holds no anger in her words, but there’s no love in them either. Her love for him was being held with a knife in its back, she could feel the sharp blade pressing into her skin.

“What?”

“Anything else you’ve lied to me about? Or, rather, what have you been truthful about?” His brows furrow and hurt brushes across his features. She feels a twinge of guilt, but she needs to know, she needs to hear him say what he’s going to say before she can allow herself to sink into the safety of their love.

“I haven’t told you anymore lies. I swear.”

His words are so resolute, so strong that she almost believes him then, but it would be reckless. “That’s not enough,” she replies, running the events of the weeks since in her head. It’s so very clear now. Her declarations and promises regarding the people of the world were met with words that were meant to slow her pace or went against what she had said. She agreed to stay in King’s Landing that day, she remembers that. She thought it was the first step in properly building her new world, he thought it was the first step in keeping her tied to the city. He knew very well what she had wanted because she had voiced it and he countered her motives with his actions and disguised them as support. All the advice he’s given her, the way he speaks of her reign, her people, it never strayed further than the gates of King’s Landing. _I suppose he hasn’t been entirely deceitful. But a lie by omission is still a lie._

 _Why did he lie?_ She wonders, digging deeper into the moment of his deception, the circumstances surrounding it.

 _I was ready to leave_ , she recalls, flinching as she relives her calloused indifference to the people of the city. Now that she had seen the depth of their pain, the destruction of her attack, she couldn’t imagine doing so again and leaving without a second thought _. He suggested I stay. He begged me to stay. He promised to never leave me alone. Was that promise just another way of keeping me here?_

Her composure threatens to unravel. It would destroy every part of her if everything he’s said to her, if every sweet word and gentle touch was only a manipulation on his part. _Have I really been so blind?_ _Or have I chosen to ignore the obvious?_ He’d said time and time again that he didn’t want the throne, yet he agreed that day _. Have I selfishly trapped him with me? Have I purposely ignored his true desires just to appease my own loneliness?_ A wave of guilt passes through her before she remembers that it was him who had lied. He was here, possibly against his own deepest wishes, because he lied.

“Dany, please. What else do you need? What can I say to make this right?”

She refocuses on him, surprised to see his own composure slipping, his words don’t hold nearly as much confidence as the did only moments ago.

“I don’t know if I’ll believe anything you say right now.” she replies quietly, dazed. It might be a stretch, the love she has for him is screaming for her attention, desperately telling her that there are moments he couldn’t have lied in, moments that his honor, his _goodness_ , wouldn’t allow him to lie in. She presses the knife harder, commanding herself to scour everything that might be warped by deception.

The sharp edge makes her stand up straight again. She was determined to pick apart every intimate moment they’d shared to find where he may have simply said what she wanted to hear.

“You never had any intention of leaving Westeros?”

He ducks his head in shame. “None.”

“So, when I asked you to join me, when you kissed me, you did so _knowing_ that you didn’t mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do it, then? Why did you let me believe otherwise?”

“Because I love you.”

Her heart jumps at those words, but she can’t find relief in them, not yet. “That’s not enough, Jon. You’ve had ulterior motives since the beginning, so tell me what they are.”

“I needed to protect you. I needed to protect the people.”

“From what?” She knows the answer.

“From you,” he replies, “I couldn’t let you do it again. I knew I had a better chance of preventing any more bloodshed if I took the power you were offering.”

“You did it so you could control me?”

“No,” he replies, the sureness returning as his eyes shoot up to meet hers. He tries to hold her gaze, daring her to find any falsehood in his face _. I couldn’t find it before, I probably can’t find it now_. He takes a step closer, she takes a step back. She needs the distance more than she wants his touch. He doesn’t try again. “I did it because I know you, Dany. I know how you think and what you believe. You didn’t mean the words you were saying, the danger of them, the threat of them.”

If she digs hard into her rationality, she understands what he means. Her own voice echoes in her head, the declarations hold an air of familiarity and yet in inflection in which she delivered them was foreign, even to her own mind.  _We’ll leave the world a better place than we found it…They’ll know only peace and happiness and know that you and I gave it to them…It has to be fear, Jon._

Her next words are softer, taking pity on his sorry state, though no less unforgiving. “So, you decided that it wasn’t me. That you were going to _change_ my mind. Why do you think you had the right to do that?”

“I had no right, but I had a duty. A duty to the Realm, to myself, to you. I needed to help you—”

“You had no intention of helping m—”

“ _Help_ _you_ see what you’d done. You didn’t know, didn’t care. _That’s_ how I knew you weren’t yourself, that everything that had happened to you, every betrayal and loss you suffered left you broken and unrecognizable. I know I played a part in that, I had to try and make it right. More than anything I just wanted to help you piece yourself back together, to be whole again, to find some happiness.”

She’s offended by his words, the weakness he describes her with. A brief swell of anger fills her, and she embraces is, it doesn’t make her feel as vulnerable. The next words tumble from her mouth before she can stop them.

“And you think you’ve helped? I feel more broken than ever. I don’t recognize a thing about myself.”

He ducks his head again, but not before she sees the sheen of tears the gloss over his eyes. She immediately wants to apologize, wants to forgive him.

He takes a slow step back, head still down, fidgeting with his hands.

“I love you, Daenerys. It was never my intention to make you feel worse,” his voice is gruff, strained. “I’m sorry I’ve failed you.”

Her heart jumps to her throat and she sighs, wanting to appease them both.  She steps closer, slides her hands inside his and he grips them tightly, but he won’t look at her.

_Of course, he loves me. He wouldn’t lie about that. He couldn’t._

“I am happier,” She finally offers, because it’s true. If she counts on her fingers all the moments she’s felt real, personal happiness, many have occurred in this very room, all with him.  _All those moments might not have been real, though._ He said it was his duty. She needed to know what he thought that duty entailed, how large of a part _duty_ played in their relationship. “But…you said you felt it was your duty to help me.”

“Yes.”

“When you asked me to marry you, did you do it out of duty?” She fears his answer, but she requires his honesty.

“No,” he says, tugging her closer. “I asked you because I want you to be my wife.”

“But what made you ask?”

“The council meeting. I didn’t want you to marry anyone else, I didn’t want to marry anyone else. Only you.”

She nods, his words are so soft and earnest that she couldn’t find deception in them if she stripped them bare _. He wants to marry me because he loves me_. She tucks away the happy memory, relieved beyond words that he wouldn’t call himself her husband because he felt he had to.

When the next one crosses her mind, she grows incredibly nervous, scared. She thinks on his words that night, becoming increasingly worried and she recalls the things he said. _You have the strength to stay your hand...Nothing but peace and love and stability…They won’t know the fear you felt running from city to city…_ her nerves turn to steel.

“You used our child against me,” She says starting to pull her hands away from his, but he grips them tighter, almost painfully when he hears her words.

“I didn’t, Dany. I would never.”

“Do you even want it?” it’s a cruel question, but she needs to pin down the truths and feel her way up, hoping that when she snags into a lie, the knot will be simple enough to unravel and let them continue as they had been.

“Yes,” he replies passionately. “Dany everything I’ve said to you has been the truth. I love you, I want to marry you, I want our child. If you can’t…” he pauses, swallows painfully. “If you can’t forgive me for deceiving you, if you can’t trust me anymore, just please remember that. Please.”

She wants to keep her distance but the tears in his eyes soften her _. He isn’t lying. I saw the happiness in his eyes when felt our child between us._

“I believe you,” She whispers quietly, meeting his grief-stricken eyes. “But you did use our child against me. You used my love, manipulated it. You said what you said knowing I would do anything to ensure our child’s safety and happiness, that I would agree to anything.”

“I…” Shame crosses his face. He averts his eyes. “I suppose I did.”

She closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she absorbs his confirmation. She’s confused on how to feel. It hurts to know she’s been guided in her decisions, that she didn’t make them on her own. Any of her small moments of victory and relief she had felt recently now feel even more unearned than they previously had. She feels betrayed, Jon knew that she trusted him more than anyone and used that trust to advance his own purpose. It upset her, no matter how noble he thought the cause was.

“Why did you do it at all? Why didn’t you just tell me what you wanted, what you hoped for? Why did you have to take advantage of my love for you?”

“Because at the time I didn’t believe you would listen.”

As much as she hates to admit it, he’s probably right. She remembers that day, remembers her reluctance to treat her people as people instead of enemies that needed to be conquered, how she thought Jon naïve for wanting to find peace without violence.

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Because our allies are going to be here soon. Our council will be formed, plans will be more permanently made. We need to be of the same mind.”

“I thought we were.”

“I _am_ sorry, Dany.”

They’re both quiet and she looks away from him, unable to meet his imploring gaze with the rigidity she has to maintain. His thumb strokes the back of her hand, trying to comfort her or himself, she didn’t know.

She has to think, but she can’t have him in front of her and keep a clear head. She knows how inherently good he is, how stubbornly unmoving his honor can be, how it can keep him from doing what he really wants. Everything he’d said to her, about her, their baby, their people, their Kingdoms, he wouldn’t have said it without believing his own words. He wouldn’t play the game with malicious intent, especially against her.

But he still played it and she had to absorb every detail of it to understand how she truly felt. She needs to be away from him to do that. She also needs to sit with the words themselves, the implications they hold.

“I need to leave.” She says abruptly, her composure mercifully kept. Before he can think the worst, she appeases him. “I need to think, Jon. Just for a while, away from you.” 

“Dany, please…”

“I’ll be back before the night is over.”

For a moment it looks like he’s going to beg her to stay, but much to her relief he decides against it, shame and defeat settling into his stance.

He brings her hands up, still wrapped in his own, and presses his lips to them. “Please be safe. Please come back to me.”

 _I’ll always come back to you_. She nods stiffly, her eyes focused on the collar of his gambeson.

Realizing that he won’t get a more elaborate response, he sighs, lowering their hands before gently pulling away and taking a step back.

She goes to turn, prepared to leave the room without another word, but she hesitates, thinking it would be cruel to them both.

She walks up to him slowly, bringing up one hand to cup his face gently, before placing a small kiss on his lips. His hands brush against her waist before he lowers them back to his sides when she tenses at the touch.

“I love you.” He whispers against her mouth after she pulls away. All she can do is nod in acknowledgement. She needs to think.

When she turns this time, it’s without hesitation, and she doesn’t look back as she closes the door of their sanctuary behind her.

\---------------

 

Outside the door she feels utterly alone. Part of her wants to tear the door back open and be with the one person she has left in the world, the other needs to retreat somewhere alone to lick her wounds. Her Unsullied posted at the end of the hallway are looking at her expectantly, waiting for whatever command she has for them.

“Will you find Grey Worn for me, please.” She says quietly, as if she were in a lively castle filled with sleeping guests instead of a fortress of crumbing rocks and ghosts dancing in the empty halls.

One of the men nod briskly and makes quick work of disappearing around the corner to do his Queen’s bidding.  The other follows closely behind her as she walks quietly to the open courtyard, her steps echoing in the stone corridor. She takes a seat at the council table, the map laid open before her only makes her feel more alone. _My country, my people, and yet I sit at this table alone._ She looks up, across the table, the empty black space before her makes her shiver.

She’s thankful for her soldiers, their unwavering belief in her, but she couldn’t turn to them for council or comfort, not when they had been conditioned from birth to withhold their own thoughts. But even hearing voices of disagreement or disappointment would be more welcome than the dead silence of complicity. They would allow her to do anything. They did allow it. She loves Grey Worm, and she trusts her Master of War with her life but the differences in their stations kept their friendship from running any deeper than admiration and respect. She can joke with him, smile with him, but she can’t reveal her deepest fears or greatest joys to him because his rigid demeanor wouldn’t allow him to respond in kind. No, he saved his affection for someone else, someone who was no longer here, for Grey Worm or for her. 

Her throat closes and she feels the familiar sting of tears in her eyes. _Missandei_. She wanted nothing more than to have her friend with her right now, to be wrapped in the comfort of the kind woman’s arms. She could trust Missandei, trust her to not to mask her disapproval or contain her joy. She would give anything to have her here to sooth her hurt and offer advice in a soft, gentle tone. But she isn’t, all she has is Jon, and he was the source of her pain.

Before the tears can finally fall from her eyes, something she strangely wants, hoping it would be cathartic, Grey Worm approaches her, his stoic nature imposing enough to hold them back. She clears her throat and stands, not knowing where she wants to go but wanting to be anywhere but in this quiet Keep.

“My Queen, you have need of me?”

“Yes, I’m sorry if I pulled you away from something important I just…I need to go somewhere, walk. I would appreciate if you would accompany me.” Even Grey Worm’s formal love for her is a huge pushback against the loneliness she currently feels.

Ever perceptive, he reads her tone and his eyes soften just enough to let her know he cares. He nods, lowering his spear from its defensive positive at his side into a more casual one, though she knows he’s skilled enough to make the switch back in a blink of an eye if he needs to. She begins walking and he falls into step with her, not as her guard in front of her or behind her, but beside her as her friend.

They walk in a comfortable silence, her muscle memory leading her to the front gates of the Red Keep. She has yet to see how the city breathes at night, and she’s surprised to hear the soft buzz of life and the low glow of torches at the foot of the steps. She walks down the steps quietly, as if it will help her go unnoticed, but thankfully the darkness of the hour keeps anyone from caring to look up at them. She reaches the bottom and quickly makes her way to the edge of the courtyard, still unsure of where her feet are leading her. Grey Worm motions towards a few of his men and they subtly take positions around her, far enough not to draw attention, but near enough to protect her from any threats.

Despite the quiet hum of voices around them, she and Grey Work remain in a bubble of silence. She feels comfortable between him and the wall, shielded from the people who hold no love for her.

“Do you miss her?” She asks, still feeling the sting of Missandei’s absence, as if finally thinking about her left her unable to ignore the gap any longer.

She watches in sadness as his jaw clenches, his usual mask slipping completely away from him.

“More than anything.” He replies, pain seeping into his usually composed words.

“How can you do it?” _How can you continue to live on without your love? What gives you the strength to not fall victim to the grief?_ She couldn’t imagine losing Jon, she didn’t know where she would be without him. Perhaps she would have burned half the world already, in grief or in rage, she didn’t know. Her losing Jon was a dangerous possibility for the world.

“I have to, my Queen. It’s what she would want. She loved you more than anyone and anything. She was so proud of you, to call you her Queen. She wouldn’t want me to leave you.”

His words hold a determination she wishes she had, but she no longer knew what she was doing, what she wanted to do, what her goals where. Instead they only make her feel small, Missandei’s love for her was impenetrable, but she doubted her most trusted advisor could look at the city before them and not feel grief, possibly even shame at what her Queen had done.

 _Dracarys_ had been her last word. _Bring your enemies fire and blood, make them suffer as you have_. Missandei was too good to see the people of King’s Landing as enemies, but Daenerys brought fire and blood to them anyway.

Tears fill her eyes again at the thought of failing her dear friend. “I want to make her proud.” She says, her sorrow evident.

“You will.”

“But I haven’t, yet.”

For a minute he doesn’t respond, and she knows he agrees with her. He knows Missandei would hate this.

“You did what you had to do, My Queen.”

She doesn’t know what to say, and so she doesn’t say anything.

Swimming in her loneness, her self-doubt, her betrayal, she needs a rock. Something to hold her down and remind her of who she was and all that she had accomplished, something that would make her feel like Daenerys Targaryen again.

“Drogon is still in the Dragonpit?”

“He comes and goes. He flies off over the sea, but he always comes back after a day or two.”

She’s been neglecting her son, she realizes, she was all he had left now that his brothers were gone. Perhaps he flies over the sea looking for Rhaegal, only to return alone to the place that represented the end of her once great and revered house. He must feel as alone as she does. Perhaps they could be alone together.

 _Maybe Jon’s plans were meant to keep me occupied, keep me from seeing my son._ Maybe he feared the idea of her mounting her dragon once more, flying away from him and his plans. _Or perhaps he simply didn’t think about it._ Jon wouldn’t intentionally keep her from Drogon, not when he knew how much she loved her fearsome child.

“Is he here now, though?”

“Yes, My Queen.”

“Take me to him?”

He nods, and slightly quickens his pace, leading her through the abandoned and eerily quiet streets of the city.

“Where are the people?”

“We keep them contained, My Queen. We can’t let men wander off and hide to plot against you where we can’t see them.”

“Do you think some would?” She knows her people hate her, she didn’t know there where some actively plotting her death.

“Hard to say. People are angry. Angry people do stupid things.”

No more words are spoken, the walk to the Dragonpit lasting a calming twenty or so minutes. She didn’t allow herself to think about Jon just yet, not until she was with Drogon, the symbol of her house that had never failed to make her feel powerful and strong.

When she finally sees the top of the dilapidated structure, she feels a wave of energy pass through her. She speeds up as Grey Worm falls behind, ready to take his post at the entrance. From her peripheral, she can see the rest of the men moving into the shadows, watching for threats.

Before she walks in, she turns to him. “Do you trust Jon Snow?”

He nods immediately. “He is a good man, hard worker.” She knows that.

“Do you trust him with me?”

He thinks on this question before answering. “If he loves you as much as I love Missandei, then yes.”

“Do you think he does?” She probably shouldn’t be asking her Master of War these questions, their friendship doesn’t entail sharing these intimate details, but who else would answer unbiasedly? Who else does she have?

“We don’t share many words, My Queen, but he’s never given me a reason to think otherwise. You chose your King wisely.”

She smiles softly at him. “Thank you, Grey Worm. I won’t be long, I promise.”

He nods, turning to look at the dark path in front of him. She isn’t too worried about anyone following them, it would be unwise to approach a dragon. But then again, angry people do stupid things.

Once passed the entrance, she spots her child curled up in the middle, already aware of her presence and watching her intently.

She’s nervous to approach him, unsure if she would be able to take it if he was upset with her. When she reaches him, she can feel the warmth of his scales wash over her, and he stares at her for a moment before letting out a small huff and lowering his head closer to her. She lets out a soft laugh and strokes his side, his scales rough to the touch but soothing to her all the same.

“Hello, my love.” She whispers, and he lets out a soft rumble of contentment from his chest. His inquisitive eyes watch her, as if he knows how much pain she’s in, how much pain she’s been in for the last several weeks. He probably does, their bond allows him to feel every bit of her emotions as much as she feels his. Right now, they both feel alone, relieved to have each other’s company.

She sighs, thinking it was best to get on with it and let her mind finally run with the circumstances of her current situation.

She walks around him, taking a seat on the hard ground and leaning against the side of her son, hugging her legs to her chest. He curls his tail in, tucks in his wings, and brings his head to rest right near her, encircling her in his warmth and shielding her from the chill that surrounds her.

“Jon lied to me, he’s been lying to me,” she begins, not caring that he can’t respond, but comforted by the fact that he’ll listen. “That’s what I’m upset about, the lying. I don’t think he knows that. What he _did_ say though, I…I don’t know what to feel about it. I should be angry with him for abandoning my dreams before he even gave them a chance, for not wanting the same, but I’m not. I want to be, but the very idea of flying away to continue fighting makes me feel empty.” _It used to make me feel fulfilled, worthy of being Aegon the Conqueror’s descendent._

His only response is a slow blink, but she knows he understands. He’s hanging on to her words, even if it’s just to hear the soothing voice of his mother. _He must be surrounded by quiet ghosts when I’m not here._

“I have no desire to leave, especially now that I’m expecting a baby,” she says, placing her hand on her belly, a small smile gracing her lips. Drogon purrs softy when he sees the soft look on her face, letting her know he’s happy to see her smile. “But I’m supposed to, I need to. What else am I made for if not this? Some higher power deemed me worthy enough to give me you and your brothers, I must be meant to do something great.”

If she stayed, she would be turning away from her fate. _Their_ fate. Jon was supposed to be with her. But he didn’t want to leave. Her fate was tied to his, yet he didn’t feel the weight of it as she did. She wouldn’t be separated from him, not now. No higher power or greater calling would pull her away from him. They’d suffered enough heartache, she wouldn’t willingly suffer through it again. She just didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

He doesn’t want to leave Westeros, that’s the only truth she knows at the moment. The one small truth that threw every event in the last few weeks into a spiral of uncertainty. She thinks she understands why he doesn’t want to leave, it’s a relatively simple reason _. He hated what I did to this city, he doesn’t want to see me do it again._

 _I hate it, too. I don’t want to do it again._ But how else was she supposed to fulfill her destiny? She once told Jon that strength was terrible, she held on to that belief now more than ever. She had to believe that what she did was necessary, though she feels incredibly shamed sitting with that thought. She doesn’t want to believe it anymore, but she feels trapped with it. It isn’t a burden she wants to bear any longer, but who else could?  She has no one pass it on to, and Jon doesn’t want to share it with her.

“Daario once told me that I wasn’t made to sit in a chair in a palace, that I was a conqueror. At the time, his words thrilled me. Now I just felt saddled with them,” she says, chuckling softly when he lets out an annoyed huff at the mention of the sellsword. “Oh, did you not like Daario? I’m not surprised, you didn’t let him near you like you did Jon.”

She loses herself in her thoughts again.

 _Dragons plant no trees._ The imposing and motivating words that once kept the duties of her family’s legacy firmly in her mind, pushing her forward through her victories and triumphs, seemed only to mock her now. Everything she believed in, the beliefs of her house were always meant to make her feel strong, extraordinary, now only make her feel like she was sitting on top of a mountain overlooking a world meant to be hers, small, alone, and empty. She desperately wanted to climb down and be amongst the people, but she burned the ladder and she was trapped on the brutally cold peak. _If I look back, I’m lost._

Jon may have been a Targaryen by blood, but he didn’t grow up with these words being whispered in his ear, he didn’t feel like a slave to them.

“What do I do? How do I explain to him that I have to do this? I don’t feel any happiness in it, all I want is to grow old with him. My destiny was written long before I was born, I don’t think I’m strong enough to walk away from it.” He lets out a small unhappy groan, berating her for her self-depreciation.

 _Could I walk away from it?_ she thinks, the possibility promising nothing but relief. It promised her peace, growing trees, time. It promised Jon, their child, a family, a home. Everything she would choose without a second thought if she were able.

 _Would it be so bad to stay?_ Slaver’s Bay wasn’t the only place in the world where people were sold as cattle, doesn’t she have a duty to them? Every place in the world held tyrants, people who took advantage of the weak. _Why did it fall on me to rid them from the world?_

As she thinks on her fated duties, she tries to curse whoever forced them on her, only to come up empty.

Her thoughts turn back to Jon.

He doesn’t want what she wants. She huffs in frustration at him, as if he’s here with her now. She doesn’t _want_ it, either, not like she thought she did. But she couldn’t deny that the idea has been fading from the forefront of her mind from the moment they left her lips, as if they weren’t spoken from her at all. She closes her eyes and places herself atop the steps of the Keep, addressing her warriors, and as hard as she tries, she can’t match half the conviction she held that day. _Jon said it wasn’t me who had said them, that I wasn’t myself._ Could that have been true?

_What made me say it all?_

Westeros. Westeros had been her goal from the moment she found her strength, and she has it now. In truth, she thinks it’s still all she wants. Her Kingdoms. Her family’s Kingdoms. So why did the gods seek to make her shoulder the duties of their bidding after she’d finally done what her own?. Was it even the gods? They’d never spoken to her before, she never cared to listen to them, old or new. The Lord of Light’s teachings had been her ally, pushing people to follow her, but as the Lord of Light never asked for anything in return, she never bothered either with that religion either. She couldn’t depend on any gods to aid her in the worst times, why should she seek them out in her times of triumph? Or rather, why did they seek her out?

Isolated on top of her mountain, more words come to comfort her. _Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men._

 _What kind of Targaryen would I be if I let the gods turn the wheels of my fate?_ Not one worthy of being Aegon the Conqueror’s descendant.

“What do you think?” she asks Drogon, her head falling back to rest against her son, the warmth emanating from him the most welcome sensation. “Let’s say I stayed and forgot about the rest of it all, would the world descend into chaos? I don’t think so, but perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.”

He answers with another groan, annoyed this time, as if telling her she’s overthinking everything. Telling her to do what she wants.

It started as a blurred fantasy, but she seems to be molding it into a tangible option, vivid in its color and bright in its hope. She’s acting and thinking against her destiny and she doesn’t feel a shred of guilt for it. In fact, it’s one of the few times her mind hasn’t pulsed the dreaded emotion through her.

She tries to calm her building excitement, to look at the options laid before her rationally. One is her destiny, though even the _word_ sounds brittle to her now, the other still feels like a hopeful fantasy, but it’s edging closer to her grasp with every passing second.

She furrows her brows in worry, suddenly thinking that perhaps her destiny seems less inviting now because of the hostility she’s met with every day, that the idea of abandoning her fate only appealed to her because it promised immediate relief. What if it came back to her later, years later, after she and Jon had built a happy life.

She tries to imagine waking up one day next to her love, only to feel empty when she looks upon him, unsatisfied with his touch, and bored with their love. She tries to imagine telling him she wants to leave, to fly away on Drogon and fulfill the destiny he kept her from.

She fails. She can’t even picture his lovely dark eyes or the curve of his lips without her heart swelling with affection. Not a thing in the world could make that feeling fade from her. He’s her anchor, her partner, even the greatest duty couldn’t hold a candle to him.

“Perhaps we _will_ stay, Drogon. Here in Westeros.” Her words come out tentatively, but she doesn’t mind the way they feel on her tongue. They feel like a deep breath, a break.

Hearing the lightness in her voice, so different from even moments ago, Drogon purrs in agreement.

She finally allows the possibility to take root in her mind, hoping it’ll grow. Hoping that she can nurture and care for it enough, so it doesn’t turn brown and frail and die before it has the chance to bloom.

She couldn’t tell Jon, not yet. It was only a seed now, it could easily be ripped out. She’s the only person who could dig her fingers in enough to grab it and pull it away, but she doesn’t trust herself not to, not yet. No, she would tell him when she was sure it would flourish, when she could say the words with conviction and certainty, so he wouldn’t have a doubt in his mind that it was what she truly wanted.

For now, she would tell him the world would wait, that she would devote her entire self to King’s Landing. She already has, she realizes, but she can still say the words to him, too many things have been left unspoken.

She circles back to the reason she left their room in the first place, his lie. He said he didn’t lie about anything else, but all his truths were built on the single time he did.

As much as she’s swayed herself to his position, she can’t ignore the hurt it’s caused. He may not have thought so, but he manipulated her. She knows deep in her heart that he would never do so with ill intentions, but she’s fearful all the same. She didn’t suspect it all, couldn’t hear any wavering in his words or see any deception in his features. He could do it again, he could be doing it still.

 _He’s not,_ she berates herself. _Lying isn’t a second nature to him._

He doesn’t want to leave Westeros. She could accept that. He wanted her, their child, their family. That she knew. But everything laying in the middle of those absolutes were just as important. He told her time and time again he didn’t want the throne. Certainly, witnessing the violent lengths she would go through finally call it hers wouldn’t have swayed him in favor of the position. _What else did he want?_ He wanted peace. That was the base of nearly every word of advice he’d given her. Peace wouldn’t come easily with ruling, he would be filled with worry and saddled with endless duties. He already is.

He’s already compromised his future for her. He didn’t want to be King in the North. He wore the title like it was a prison sentence. Yet here he was, now King of the Seven Kingdoms. A different kind of guilt settles in her, a more personal one. She loves him beyond words, but she wants him to be happy. She wants him to look back years from now and be content with the life he lived instead of life he could have had if he weren’t sentenced live as King.

His words come back to her, whispering sweetly against her ear. _Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, for us. I want you to be happy, more than anything._

Does he want her happiness more than he wants his own? That was more than likely the case, but they're equals, his happiness should be just as important. They're a team, perhaps that means supporting each other in their own endeavors, even if it separates them.

A gaping hole threatens to open in her chest, and so she stops her trail of thought. They could speak on it together, she knows how her mind can force pain on her, perhaps the torment would all be for nothing.

Drogon lifts his head curiously at her, noticing the slight rise in her breathing from the brief panic.

“I’m okay, love.” She assures him gently, smiling when he lowers his head to the ground again.

She reminds herself again, _he lied_. Even working through it in her mind, she could understand why he did it, she could even accept it. The tension had begun to leave her tightened muscles each time she reminded herself that he loves her, that he was the most honorable man she knew.

So why was she still upset at his lie? She would forgive him for it, of course she would. But something about it left her feeling hurt.

It was _his_ words that led her to stay, _his_ words that led her to tend to the people, _his_ words that began the revitalization of the city, the people. It was all him. She gave the commands, grew her own ideas from his, but he began the series of events. She wasn’t jealous, she was disappointed. She tried hard to feel proud of her accomplishments, constantly reminding herself that although she was the reason for where they were, she was _helping_. It didn’t always work, but sometimes it did. Those times motivated her to keep walking through the city, encouraged her to meet the hate of her people with her love. _More of Jon’s words._ His lie only told her that it was never really her, that he had his hands placed on her shoulders the entire time, gently leading her to better choices.

Not only does she feel belittled, she feels disheartened.

Her confidence in herself was already crumbling before her, the rubble laying at her feet and growing in height with each passing day, his lie had knocked over any pitiful attempts she’d made to rebuild it.

“What’s happened to me, Drogon? I’m the blood of the dragon, but that blood’s as clear as water now. Why do I feel so weak? Do you feel weak?”

He lets out another annoyed huff. He thinks the question is ridiculous.

“Well, you’re a dragon. A _real_ dragon. Nothing could ever make you feel weak.”

To her surprise and sadness, he lets out a soft noise of longing. _He misses his brothers, he feels lost without them._

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she says to him, reaching over to stroke the side of his head. “I’ll come here more often, I’m sorry I haven’t before I just…I haven’t been myself.”

He stares at her, waiting for her to expand on her words, she feels his curiosity. To him it’s all so simple, she’s right here, she just needs to realize it.

“I need to find myself again, find who I was when I had allies, advisors, armies, your brothers.” She’s speaking to herself now, though having her son listen to her keeps her voicing her thoughts. “I need to find who I was when I first came to Westeros, before I met Jon.”

She feels a sudden wave of energy pass through her, so brief she could have imagined it, and she passes Drogon a look of gratitude. He wants to help her, wants her to feel the strength of a real dragon, the energy that she was once able to meet with equal force.

“I need to do it on my own, I can’t have him guiding me anymore.”

A deep, low rumble leaves his chest. Evidently, he agrees.

Another wave pushes through her, this one more drawn out and able to saturate her before runs its course.

She smiles at her son’s efforts, “Thank you, my love. Hopefully I can manage the rest.”

She sits for a while longer, trying to find that same energy in herself, trying to separate herself from Jon to see how far she’s fallen. She tries to quell the loneliness she feels when she does. She gently reminds herself that he’s always there, watching her with love and care, that she can walk forward without fear of getting completely lost. A nervous smile pulls on her lips when she feels a familiar burn at the center of her chest.

With that, she stands up and dusts herself off, drained from her emotional ups and downs, but determined. From now on, every decision would be her own. She had the full picture now. She realizes she’s grown _too_ dependent on him, despite telling herself and him that she wouldn’t. She fed off his strength, building her own façade from the help he’d offered. She’s grateful, of course, but she wouldn’t rely on his reassurances and comforts anymore. Her power couldn’t come from him. It hadn’t before and it wouldn’t in the future.

She leans over Drogon’s head, larger than the size of her body, and kisses him gently as if he was still the small dragon who once rested on her shoulder.

“I’ll help you and you help me, yes? We’re dragons. We need to act like it.”

He nudges her so affectionately that he nearly knocks her over. She laughs quietly at his enthusiasm.

“I’ll come back more. I promise.”

He lets out a deep sign of approval before laying his head back down and closing his eyes, clearly dismissing her.

Just as she starts making her way to the entrance, Grey Worm walks in.

“My Queen, we were followed.”

“You don’t seem concerned. By whom?”

“Arya Stark, my men have her.”

“Did she come to kill me?” She hopes not, if Arya followed them with the intention to end her life, she will have forfeited her own. Jon would be heartbroken to learn that his sister had tried to kill her, but that wouldn’t overpower the rage he would feel.

“I don’t think so, she surrendered her weapons without resistance.”

“We both know she wouldn’t need a weapon.” The girl had a quiet deadliness about her. Daenerys didn’t know a thing about Arya Stark, only that she had killed the Night King. That had to take more skill than simply being able to wield a sword.

“Should we escort her to the cells, then?”

“No, if she wasn’t planning to kill me why did she come?”

“She says she wants to speak with you.”

She nods, embracing the fluttering of nerves she feels growing in her, forcing them to turn to strength. She wouldn’t cower before Arya Stark. “Then I’ll speak with her.”

“My Queen…”

“Did she seem angry?”

“No.”

“Then we don’t have to worry about her doing anything stupid, not when her brother has warned her of the consequences.”

“Very well, shall I bring her here?”

She almost says yes, Drogon would surely intimidate the girl enough, but she was also a dragon, and she was once capable of intimidating someone with a single glance. She would learn to do it again.

“No, we’ll walk back to the Keep, I’m getting rather tired.”

He nods, turning back to the gates and she follows, unsure what the talk with Arya Stark entailed, but prepared, nonetheless.

When they make it to the front, her eyes immediately fall on the girl. Her guards have her restrained, though she looks completely as ease. When Daenerys finally catches her eye, hers narrow, her relaxed features warp into a mixture of hate, disgust, and suspicion. She’s used to all of it, though receiving it from Jon’s beloved little sister does affect her more than she likes.

“Release her.” she says, not breaking her eyes from Arya’s. The girl quirks an eyebrow at her.

When they let her go, Daenerys shifts her eyes to the path before her and begins walking, motioning for Grey Worm to give them some space. “Whatever you have to say to me, say it.”

Arya catches up to her, though she walks with a bit of distance between them, so quietly that Daenerys could almost forget she was there if she closed her eyes.

“You’ve killed thousands of people.” She says bluntly.

“I’m aware.” Daenerys replies, thankful she’s able to mask any reaction to her words. It hurts to hear it said by someone who hates her, to hear her actions that day summarized in a single, devastating sentence.

“And you still think you’re good enough to be with someone like Jon?”

She can’t mask her slight flinch at those words. _I know I’m not good enough for Jon, but he wants me anyway._ “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to, you have him wrapped around your finger. We both know if you turned him away and commanded him to return North, _where he belongs_ , he wouldn’t fight it.”

 _Oh, you’re so very wrong._ If anything, Jon’s had her wrapped around his.

“Why would I command him to do something he doesn’t want to do? I’ve not been making his decisions for him. He’s more than welcome to pack his things and return North, just as much as he’s welcomed to stay here. I won’t make the choice for him.”

As much as it scares her, she means what she says. After tonight, Jon will know he will not be bound by duty to stay with her, that he will always have a path to the North open to him, should he ever want to leave the stresses of ruling and take it.

“You have though. He feels obligated to stay here, to watch your temper and protect the people.”

She thanks the gods she doesn’t believe in that it’s dark out, so Arya can’t see her look down momentarily in shame. She isn’t completely wrong.

She swallows quietly before answering in a somber tone. “As I said, I won’t make the choice for him.”

“So, you don’t care that he might not want to be here?”

“If Jon ever tells me he wants to leave, I wouldn’t stop him.”

“He won’t tell you. And I don’t think you’d ask because you know what he’d say. I think a lot of things about you, but I never thought you were so weak.”

She feels a flame of anger crawl up her spine. _I’m not weak, I’m a dragon._

“No, but you think your brother weak.”

“I didn’t—”

“He doesn’t take orders from me, he doesn’t bend to my words the way you think he does. It’s rather insulting really, to assume your brother has no will of his own.”

Arya lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “It isn’t words, it’s love. Love has my brother in its grasp, and for some reason he isn’t fighting it.”

“Why do you want him to? Love is wonderful. Don’t you want him to have it?”

“Not with you.”

“Perhaps not, but it is with me.” She feels her anger feeding into her words, empowering them. She could let the anger turn her words to threats, or she could let it turn them to Queen’s words. Not commands, but words that couldn’t be argued against, couldn’t be stripped down. She chooses the latter. “I know how good Jon is, men like him are rare. I won’t turn away the love of a man like that, no matter what his sister thinks.”

“Even if you know you don’t deserve it?”

She clenches her jaw, the girl’s words slicing at her. “Yes.”

She stops questioning her and they both walk in a tension-soaked silence for a few hundred feet before Daenerys needs to break the silence and take control of the situation.

She stops walking, pausing in the middle of an empty, quiet street just outside the large courtyard of the Keep.

“What do you want, Arya?” she says, turning to face her. “Was your only objective a poor attempt at convincing me to order your brother away?”

“I wasn’t trying to convince you of anything, I only wanted to remind you that you don’t deserve him.”

“Well, you’ve reminded me, is there anything else? A threat perhaps? Go on then, make your threat and be on your way.”

The girl turns to face her, her stance relaxed and open, the opposite of Daenerys’ own rigid back and hands tightly clasped just in front of her at her waist. She’s a Queen, she needs to present herself as such.

“No threat, I’m afraid. I promised Jon I wouldn’t, so I’ll let it go unsaid.” But it’s still there, laying between them. She would be a fool to miss it.

“Wise choice. Anything else?”

Her stance suddenly changes, she stands taller, her hand cross behind her back. She almost looks like a soldier.

“You’re Queen now. The Seven Kingdoms are yours, but you’ll never have the love of the people. I know you want it. You’re desperate for it, but it’s a lost cause. If you got on your dragon and flew away tomorrow not a single person in Westeros would miss you.”

She can only assume her words mean that Arya’s been watching her, watching her face for signs of weakness and vulnerability, and she’s found them. She knows her pain at those words is displayed plainly on her face, but she doesn’t care. She isn’t heartless, she won’t pretend to be.

“As Queen, it’s my duty to care for my people, even if they don’t care for me in return.”

“If you cared for them you wouldn’t have turned them to ash.”

She doesn’t have a response to that. She closes her eyes and breathes in, trying to subdue the emotions and thoughts crawling back into her mind. The guilt, the shame, the anger, the grief, Arya’s words seemed to have woken them all back up.

She couldn’t allow herself to question that day. It happened and she couldn’t do anything to change it, so she wouldn’t allow herself to wish that she could. It was too dangerous.

“Does that bother you? Good.”

“Is there anything else, Arya?” She sighs, her eyes falling to the ground, the exhaustion of the nights’ events hitting her all at once. All she wants is to crawl into bed, to be pulled away from the disappointment of reality, even if it’s straight into her tormenting nightmares. She might even let herself try to see what they were trying to show her if it meant she wouldn’t wake sooner.

Arya’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, she doesn’t understand why.

“Nothing else.”

With that the girl turns away and walks deeper into the empty streets. Perhaps to plot her death.

Daenerys watches as she leaves, feeling uneasy. The girl read something in her face, saw something. Arya seems to have won the battle simply by not fighting it the way she expected.

“My Queen?” Grey Worm breaks her out of her daze, and she tears her eyes away from the darkened street to look at her Master of War. She gives him a nod and he steps by her side again, ready to escort her back to the keep.

\---------------

Standing outside the doors, she hesitates to open them. She still upset, she’s decided to forgive him but she couldn’t all at once. It would be easier to avoid him, let her hurt be known to him with her actions, but unspoken words are what caused her to leave at all. They needed to speak. She needed to explain her feelings and he needed to listen and try to understand. And _together_ , they would move past it.

How does she address him? She’d just told herself she needed to learn to be who she was again, before she met Jon, but it would more regressive than anything else to do so when it was just the two of them. She needs to find a balance. She couldn’t allow their pull towards one another to be her only source of strength, nor could she act as if it didn’t help her get through every single glance of hate shot her way.

She gathers her courage and pushes open the door and her eyes are pulled to him immediately.

His head shoots straight up, his eyes wide with worry, anxiety etched deeply into his face. His hair is in disarray, as if he’d been pulling at it from the moment she left. He’s still dressed, the food next to him untouched and cold.

He rises from the table, so quick the chair screeches back as his legs knock against it. They’re both still, the space between them buzzing in anticipation, their love filling the air and watching the two of them with bated breath.

It becomes too much, and she turns away from him to shut the door. She closes it softly and presses her forehead against it, reminding herself not to fall back into her dependency just to have him near.

“Daenerys?” His voice is raspy and tired. He could have been crying, or yelling, or fighting against it all.

She takes a long breath, gathering the scattered words she needs to say to him. She turns back around, and she makes a conscious effort to keep herself from donning that protective armor in his presence, relaxing her shoulders and trying not to close herself off. Vulnerable and confident.

“You’re all I have, Jon. I can count on one hand all the people I can trust in this world, and even then, I can’t be as open with the others as I am with you.”

“Dany—” he starts, taking a step forward. She motions for him to stop. She can’t, not yet.

“Please, let me finish. I know you meant well, but that doesn’t excuse it, and it doesn’t make it hurt any less,” she starts, letting her sadness seep into the words. “I don’t think you understand, Jon. I don’t care what you lied about, not really. I care that you kept doing it, the way you did it. You let me believe that everything action I took was my own doing, and then you’d pat me on the head like I was child needing to be praised. I know it was unintentional, but that’s how I feel.”

He just stares at her, waiting for her to continue, his eyes flashing through sadness, shame, and guilt. She can see his hand balling up into fists at his sides, he wants to touch her.

“You’ve helped me, you have. You’re the only thing in the world that’s been holding me together, and you _have_ made me realize how much I’ve strayed from who I was,” _who I am…who I want to be again._ She takes a tentative step forward, trying to hold her forgiveness in for just a bit longer. “But it wouldn’t have been good for either of us in the long term. I can’t depend on you, Jon. It’s not good for you to shoulder the responsibility of holding me up. I can’t be who I was only when you’re by my side, I need to do it on my own.”

“On your own?” Panicked tears gather in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. She knows he’ll do whatever she wants to make this right.

“Yes, on my own. I can’t _need_ you anymore. You can’t guide me in all my decisions. If you want me to be better, _truly_ be better, and happier, I need to find the strength to do it myself. You said I was unrecognizable. But not even you know me as well as I know myself, I’m the only one who can truly help me find my way back. It has to be me.”

He nods to himself, accepting her words. “You want me to leave, then?” His voice is gruff.

She finally makes her way over to him, offering him a gentle smile.

“No, I don’t want that. Not at all,” she replies, reaching down to pull his hand into hers. “I want you by my side, always. But I need to be confident in knowing that I can do it on my own should you ever…choose something else.”

Arya’s wrong, she isn’t weak. She isn’t afraid to ask him.

She sighs, drawn out and shaky. She would be ready for any answer. “Honesty, Jon. That’s the most important thing for us to have. So, tell me truthfully, do you _want_ to be King?”

He opens his mouth with an immediate answer but closes it before any words come out. His emotions are dancing in his eyes, but he doesn’t shy away from her scrutinizing gaze.

“No, I don’t want to be King.”

She smiles sadly at him. “You don’t have to be. You can leave or you can stay, but I won’t force you to share the crown with me.”

“I don’t want it, but I want this. Us. Being King is the only way to be with you.”

“It’s not,” she says quietly. “This doesn’t have to end. We can still be a family.”

“It wouldn’t be favorable to the lords—”

“I don’t care what they think about it.”

“Tyrion said—”

“I _really_ don’t care what he thinks about it. Your happiness matters just as much as mine. We can be whatever we want. And the North is your home, I saw how happy you were when we arrived at Winterfell and you’ll never feel that way about King’s Landing. That’s okay, Jon.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it. “Why are you saying all of this?”

“I spoke to Arya,” he looks up with concern, which quickly morphs into anger. “She’s your sister, Jon. I think she knows you pretty well.”

“Winterfell isn’t my home, not anymore.”

“Then don’t go to Winterfell,” she says with a small laugh, feeling more comfortable in the dangerous conversation. She wants him to be happy. She would be strong for him just as he’d been for her. “But please, _please_ , don’t feel like you have to stay. I don’t want to be your duty. You’ve helped me enough and you don’t need to fear any actions I choose to take. I won’t make the same decision twice.” It’s a promise she makes to him and herself, she won’t burn anymore cities. She won’t kill anymore innocents.

His eyes soften and there’s a happiness in them that she can’t ignore. Her gut twists painfully. Perhaps he would choose to leave.

“How can we be a family if I’m not here?”

“Because we will be. Our child ties us together for the rest of our lives. I wouldn’t keep you from them. You’ll always be welcome to visit.” The future she offers him scares her. It would be torture to only see him on occasion, to only have him for a short time before he left again. It would almost be better to never see him again.

He pulls her closer, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. “I want to stay. I couldn’t walk away from this. I would be a fool to.”

Her heart constricts in relief. “Then stay.”

“But you’re wrong,” he says, standing up a little straighter. “To be with you I need to be a King. You deserve a man worthy of you and your title. It would be an insult to you if I ignored it. You sacrificed everything for me, for Winterfell, because I asked it of you. What kind of man would I be if couldn’t do the same? It a small sacrifice compared to all you’ve done for me. And in truth, it isn’t so bad. The title isn’t nearly so burdensome with you as my Queen.”

“You could regret it later…”

“I promised you together. I don’t ever intend to break that promise.”

Her head tilts up on its own, her lips brushing against his softly.

“Can you forgive me?” He whispers, encircling her waist with his free hand.

She pulls back taking a deep breath. “Do you understand why I’m upset? It’s important that you do.”

He nods, averting his eyes from her. “I…manipulated you. I used this, us, to my advantage. I made you feel small and weak. You aren’t small and you aren’t weak, you’re the strongest person I know. I’m sorry I made you feel like anything less.”

“ _Together_ , Jon. That’s how we’re meant to do this. We talk to one another, we disagree with one another, but every decision we make, we make together.”

“Together.” He replies, giving a firm nod of agreement.

“Don’t do it again. _Ever_ ,” she replies, steel in her words. “If there’s anything else, tell me now. Get it out in the open so we can move forward.”

“There isn’t.”

She smiles at his forceful insistence.

“I can forgive you,” she says bringing his face down to hers, kissing him softly. She feels his tight muscles come undone beneath her fingers. 

He pulls away first, just enough to breath harshly against her mouth. “Thank you, Dany.”

She tangles her fingers into his curls. “We still need to talk about what you said, though.”

“We do,” he reluctantly agrees.

She pulls away from him, walking over to her dressing table, wanting to loosen her braid and ready for bed. “You want to stay in Westeros.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want any more people to die. I can’t…I can’t watch you do it again, Dany. I don’t ever want to see that again.”

She nods. She expected that answer, but she still isn’t fully prepared for it. She hates being reminded, especially by him.

He surprises her by continuing. “Because the thought of ruling over the world frightens me. No one person can rule over all the people in the world. It’s dangerous. For everyone. _One_ kingdom is daunting as it is, and we have seven. If you spread your rule over any more than that, people will be neglected. If we’re on one side of the world, people on the other side could take advantage of our absence. Crime would go unseen and unpunished, people would live and die in poverty before we could address it, sickness could spread and become an epidemic before we even learned of it. And we would never have time for ourselves, to be anything more than monarchs. It would take of every hour of everyday and we still wouldn’t be able to do it properly. You and I do quite well with impossible,” he says quietly, coming up behind her to help her gently untangle her hair. “But that is far greater than impossible.”

She meets his gaze in the mirror and she can see that he’s nervous to say all this, to be completely honest with her.

“You’re right, it is greater than impossible,” she replies. “And it’s not something I want right now.”

His hands still in her hair. She turns to face him, pulling his hand away from her face and into her own. His eyes are searching her face frantically, anxiously. “Please be patient with me. I don’t know what I want anymore, and I don’t want to make you any promises I can’t keep. All I know is that at this moment, I don’t want to leave either. Not with all the work that needs to be done, not with a baby.”

She smiles as he lets out harsh breath of relief.

“I’m sorry I can give you a better ans—”

“It’s okay. You have all the time in the world to think. I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”

“Good.”

The look he gives her is heartbreaking. All at once, his eyes become glossy, his lip quivers, his brows lift in was she can only guess is profound happiness and overwhelming relief.

She smiles at him in apology. _I’m sorry it took so long, I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with your own hurt._

He shakes his head as if to say, _you have nothing to be sorry for,_ and clears his throat.  

She turns back around to undo the last of the three simple braids she had worn that day, brushing out the waves with her fingers. She stands, “Can you help me undo these ties? These dresses are getting tighter by the day.”

He nods, amusement filling his eyes, pushing away some of the ever-present broodiness. The air between them becomes lighter as they move forward from their conversation, but the tension remains and forms into something heavier and far more welcome.

They both feel content to let it sit unacted upon. He unlaces her coat, and she watches his face happily, all his attention focused on the ties.

“Why are these done so tightly? It can’t be comfortable.”

“It isn’t, I’ll ask Merri to tie them a little looser from now on.”

“You’ll begin to show soon.” He says softly, trailing his fingers along her stomach. The small swell had already gotten more prominent in the days since they’d learned of her pregnancy. Under all her layers, it was still undetectable. But uncovered they could see it perfectly.

“I know,” she says sadly. “I wish it could just be ours a bit longer.”

“Me too, but I can’t wait to see you grow. It still feels surreal,” he replies, undoing the last of the ties and pulling her overcoat from her shoulders. She stifles a giggle when he realizes her bodice has more ties to undo.

“Perhaps you should ask Merri to alter your wardrobe a bit or find you something that’s easier to get off.”

“Mmm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Well it _would_ be for my benefit, of course.”

“Of course.”

He looks up at her and an easy smile breaks on his face. She doesn’t resist the urge she has to kiss him. It’s a happy kiss. A healing one. They would move past this together, the love between them stronger for it.

When the laces are finally undone, he helps her get the remainder of her gown off and motions for her to sit, grabbing her silk robe to place over her shoulders, shielding her from the chilled air. He kneels before her take off her boots, lightly massaging the soles of her feet knowing they’d be sore. He works off her leather trousers gently, lust in his every touch, though he ignores it. He’s too focused on getting her comfortable.

Once all of her constricting clothing is removed and the cotton shift on the table behind her is pulled over her head, he lightly kisses the tip of her nose. “Get into bed, love. I think I can salvage some of the food.”

She wordlessly does as he asks, watching him move around the room. First, he moves to the fireplace, making quick work of starting the fire that usually heats their chambers. He then moves to the table, pouring a small cup of water and taking it over to her. She rolls her eyes and takes a small sip, smiling at his care.

He goes on to pile a plate with fruit, bread, and cheese. “The meat is a little cold, but it’s still good.” He gives her a questioning look and she nods. He adds a few slices to the pile.

When he takes it to her, she gives him the most serious look she can muster. “You need to eat too, Jon.”

“I will, love. I just need to change.”

“I could help.” She offers suggestively.

“Do you want me to eat or not? We both know that won’t happen if you help.”

“That’s very true,” she sighs dramatically. “Hurry, then.”

He smiles at her and walks into the small adjoined room where his things are kept. She waits for him patiently, picking at the food on her plate. Her hunger isn’t strongly felt, but she knows she needs to eat, she hadn’t since earlier that afternoon. She needs to stay healthy for her child, it was one of the only things she felt she had control over, and she wouldn’t jeopardize it.

Only a few minutes pass before he finally makes his way to the bed, a plate of his own in his hands. He sets it on the table beside him before he climbs in, looking at her with a questioning look bordering on nervousness. His tentativeness pulls at her heart and she doesn’t hesitate to move closer to him, tucking herself into his side. He heaves a sigh of relief and drapes an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer still. She goes back to picking at her food while he starts on his.

The heat of the fire gradually fills the room and they eat in silence between light touches and shy smiles.

Afterwards, he leaves the bed again, much to her disappointment, and blows out the candles around the room, until the warm glow from the fireplace the only source of light. The quietness of the castle doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Instead of getting back under the blankets with her, he kneels onto the furs, grabbing her hands in his.

“It seems all I’ve done recently is apologize for the ways I’ve wronged you,” he says, bringing her hands up to his lips and placing a kiss on them. “And by some miracle you keep forgiving me.”

“Because I know you mean well.”

“Still, I’ve made so many mistakes. I’m sure I’ll make more. I just…I’m terrified of losing you. I’ve never wanted something as much as I want this.”

She reaches up to grab the collar of his shirt and gently pulls him closer. He’s too far.

“You _have_ this,” she replies fiercely. “Everything we’ve gone through, Winterfell, the battle…King’s Landing, we’ve come out the other side. Against all odds we’re here now, together. Fear has no place between us.”

“Every misstep was my own, Dany. In Winterfell I should have…I left you alone. I let the Sansa and Arya treat you terribly. Even after the battle their behavior was unjust, and I didn’t defend you as I should have. I didn’t say a thing when you’re help wasn’t met with a single thanks. I abandoned you—"

“I know it wasn’t on purpose, you’d just learned that your father wasn’t your father. That would make anyone close off,” she doesn’t deny that it hurt. “I wish you would’ve talked to me, told me how you were feeling.”

“I wish I would have. I wish we could go back to the day we arrived. I knew I loved you, Sam’s news didn’t change that, it just confused me, made me feel like I _shouldn’t_ love you. But I should have been stronger for us. I should have married you the day after the battle in the Godswood. You were already pregnant,” she smiles sadly at his words, imagining for a brief moment what it would have been like to exchange vows with him in his home. She feels a pain in her chest at the loss of the possibility. Perhaps if they’d married in Winterfell, she would be able to think of the cold, dreary castle with fondness, as the place where she tied herself to her love for the rest of time instead of the place that tore them apart. And she _was_ already pregnant when they arrived, they didn’t share a bed in the castle for a single night before people began to drive a wedge between them. Everything had been so close to perfect, but not a single person took the right steps to get there. “It would have saved us so much pain. Sansa wouldn’t have opposed it, she would have had Winterfell,” he sighs and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “Gods, I should have listened to you and kept it a secret. She wouldn’t have had the chance to betray my trust, and Tyrion and Varys would have nev—”

“Let’s not dwell on it,” she stops him before she begins to wish it too. They can’t change it. They can’t bring back the people they’ve lost or the actions they took.

“How can you forgive me for all of that?”

“Because I love you, Jon Snow,” She answers simply. “And you’ve forgiven me for the things I’ve done. What would be the point in remaining angry over it? You’ve apologized with more than just words. I know you’re sorry. I am, too. I should have…tried harder to find friendship with your sisters. I should have tried to earn their trust.”

He starts to shake his head at the mention of them. “You did nothing wrong. They’d made up their minds about you before we even arrived. They never gave you a chance. I’m sorry for that.”

His words make her sad. He’d told her about them on the ship and in the tents they shared, in between hungry kisses and hopeful touches. He was excited for her to meet them. And she was too, she never had sisters, the closest person she had to a sister was Missandei. She’d wanted them to like her. She’d even hoped they could be close, that they could love each other as sisters, as family. She shakes the thoughts from her head, it didn’t matter now. Missandei was gone and the Starks would never love her. Her family was with Jon.

“Stop apologizing,” she says. He looks down and she can tell that he’s replaying all that had happened, making more wishes that would never come true. She moves her hand to cup his face. “Come here.”

He leans forward and she kisses him deeply, pouring all her forgiveness and her love into it.

Before things can escalate any further, he pulls away to move beneath the blankets with her.

When she curls into his side, she feels different. She doesn’t feel as protected or small, it doesn’t feel as if he’s combating anything outside of the two of them. It’s not unwelcome, she doesn’t want his embrace to feel like protection. She just wants it to feel like love and it does. He’ll protect her, always, but she needs to be able to protect herself. As she used to. She feels a small rush of pride. It’s not progress that can be seen but she can feel it, she can feel herself moving forward. She feels confident in it.

Things are as they were between them, better even. She’s still hurt, and she knew only time would make it fade away. She expected that, but she wouldn’t spend that time away from him.

Her body wants to drift off, but her mind is pulsing with residual energy. She’s proud of herself, proud of not letting her hurt consume her, proud of being able to forgive him, proud of the realizations she’d forced herself to come to.

She’s happy again and as much as she tries to fight it, she’s also a little scared. Her happiness is always followed by shadows, but she hopes she could turn to face them next time and meet it with the light of fire. She feels alive again, not so lost. The future holds its uncertainties, but she anticipates them without so much dread sitting in her gut.

She looks up at Jon, expected him to have already succumbed to sleep, he’s been quiet.

Instead, he’s looking at her with the same soft happiness she’d seen before.

“What?”

“I’ve just…I’ve missed you. So much.” His words are filled to the brim with emotion.

He’s missed who she was. The person she was when they met. The person who had led him to knock on her door. Perhaps her progress was visible to him.

“You waited for me to come back,” she replies. “Thank you. Thank you for _helping_ me.” _Thank you for not giving up on me as Varys had. As Tyrion has._

She leans up to kiss him, her energy sending another pulse through her as soon as their lips touch. She deepens the kiss, moving from his side to pull herself over him, straddling his waist. Part of her feels she should make him wait, punish him a little longer the easiest way she knows how and resist the overwhelming need to have him for the next few nights. But a larger part just wants to make up for the few hours they spent apart. She wants to feel close to him, to fully remove the protective armor around their love and be cloaked in it once again. They didn’t need to hurt unnecessarily when reconciliation was inevitable.

His hands move to grip her waist tightly, pulling her into him. She lets out a gasp at the pressure.

“You must be tired, love. We should sleep.” He says, though his actions aren’t in agreement with his words. She feels him growing hard beneath her, she feels his hands crawling up her sides, taking the hem of her gown with them.

“Not that tired.” She responds, sitting up to pull her gown over her head. The air makes her shiver, but his hands soon leave a trail of fire up her sides. His eyes fall to her growing stomach, he does it every time. A tenderness washing over the atmosphere as they acknowledge the miracle they’ve created. They share a sweet smile, both silently thanking the other. The moment never lasts beyond a minute, especially given that she’s usually as naked as she is now. As she predicts, his eyes soon move up to her chest and the moment is over.

When his hands reach her breasts, his grip on her instinctively loosens, but she’s sensitive to even the lightest touch. His eyes are nearly black with want, watching with heavy lids as her nipples harden at his ministrations. She moves back, lifting herself up to grip the bottom of his shirt. When he sees her intentions, he sits up, helping her pull it over his head. Their lips meet at soon as its discarded, bruising and harsh. His hands go back to their heavy exploration, one gripping her bottom and she grinds into him, the other in the back of her neck, tangling into her hair, keeping her face close to his.

He pulls her as close as he can, not an inch of space between them. He tries to flip them over, but she presses down harder against him. She feels his lips turn up in a smile.

She’s the first to break away, not able to ignore the burn in her lungs anymore. Even as she tries to catch her breath, he doesn’t pull his lips from her body, moving from the corner of her mouth down to her neck, nipping playfully at it, no doubt trying to leave a mark on her. She closes her eyes and smiles at the possessive act, making a note to do the same before the night was over. No one else would see how they’ve claimed one another, but they would know. He is hers and she is his. The heat pooling between her legs becoming unbearably torturous. When he continues his open-mouthed kisses down to her chest, she buries her hands into his curls, pulling at the roots. He lets out a groan at the pain and brings his mouth back to his.

She slides her hands around to his chest, lightly grazing his skin with her nails, feeling him twitch beneath her at the sensation. She pushes him down onto the bed and he stares up at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. With him, she believes it. She trails her hands lower still, until their dancing at the top of his trousers. She undoes the laces slowly, teasingly.

“Daenerys…” he groans in warning, his voice raspy and low. She smiles as his impatience and slides her hand beneath the loosened waistband, wrapping her fingers around him. As soon as she touches him, he thrusts up, gripping the tops of her thighs so hard she knows she’ll have bruises. She works him slowly with her hand, his eyes close as he lets out a faltering breath.

He lets her continue for a for a few short seconds before he shakes his head slightly and pulls her hand away. “Not like that.” he explains at her questioning look.

Taking mercy on him she lifts herself up slightly and he quickly frees himself from impeding fabric, sliding the head of his cock agonizingly slow between her lips, making her whimper. She pushes his hand away and takes him in hers again, moving him to her entrance. His eyes begin to close again, and she stills, waiting for his gaze to meet hers. She loves watching his face as she takes him inside her, the way his jaw tightens and the way his brow furrows in concentration, almost as if he’s angry. When she has his attention, she lowers herself onto him, a soft, drawn out moan escaping her lips as he fills her.

When she’s fully seated, she leans forward and places her hands onto his chest, her hair falling like a curtain around them. She closes her eyes, adjusting to his size, enjoying the sublime way he stretches her. He thrust up just a little, impatient for her to move, pulling a surprised gasp from her. She jerks her head up to find a smirk pulling at his lips.

She narrows her eyes at it impatience and rolls her hips slowly, flexing her walls around him and enjoying his immediate impulse to squeeze his eyes shut and let out a harsh breath. When he opens them again, she gives him a playful look, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

He accepts it, pulling his knees up behind her and planting his feet onto the bed, before thrusting up again, _harder_. Another moan falls from her lips and it encourages him to continue. She accepts her loss eagerly and begins to rock her hips against his, meeting his thrusts.

“ _Jon…yes_ …” she breathes out between her moans and gasps of pleasure. Each time his names falls from her lips he becomes more forceful in his movements, filling her to the hilt with each thrust, encouraging her call out his name over and over. Her lips are hovering just above his, both too breathless to share even a single kiss.

She pulls herself from his chest, the air between them becoming too hot, too overwhelming. She slows her movements and in turn, so does he. She doesn’t want it to end so quickly. She pulls herself off him, almost completely, before she sinks back down in one quick movement, the pleasure bordering on pain. She closes her eyes and does it again and again, making no effort to quiet the moans that escape her each time the head of his cock kisses her womb.

He lets out a hiss, and she looks down to find his eyes focused on where they were joined, his lips parted in desire as he watches himself disappear inside her. She looks down as well and grows hot at the lewd image of her lips stretching around him. It’s nearly enough for her to reach her peak and she feels her walls tighten around him anticipation.

His eyes tear away from between her legs and up to her face, determination sweeping across his features. He goes to flip them over again and this time she lets him, wanting to be surrounded by him. He realigns himself at her entrance and thrusts up harshly, her breath catching at the intrusion. He holds himself over her with his forearm, she loops her arms around his neck, holding him close. They share a kiss before he pulls away and grabs the back of her knee to open her up to him. His thrusts become quicker and harder, eliciting more wanton moans from her. Her climax overcomes her at the fourth thrust, and she gives herself over to the sensation, her eyes closing in ecstasy. As she’s riding the waves of pleasure, Jon follows her over the edge, spilling into her with a low groan.

Even as they struggle to catch their breath, she still had the immense need to touch him. She kisses any part of him she can, his cheeks, his chin, his neck, his lips. She nips at his neck, as she promised herself she would. She runs her hands through his curls, smiling at the languid look of contentment on his face.

“I love you.” She whispers with a quiet passion, thinking she hasn’t said it enough to him.

His answering smile is beautifully painful, it echoes that happiness he feels. _He believed I was gone and yet he loved me still._ “I love you.”

\---------------

He had expected her to fall asleep, he hoped for it. He’d been fighting tears the whole night, from the moment she walked out of the room to the moment she fell apart beneath him, his name falling from her lips like a beautiful prayer. He wants to let them fall.

He didn’t know where she’d gone, only that the near two hours she was away from him had him feeling like he was in the middle of a battle. His heart wouldn’t stop it’s incessant pounding, his head wouldn’t allow him a break from the painful thoughts flooding his mind, he felt like his life could be taken from him at any second.

_What if she asks me to leave? What if she leaves? What if she flies away with no intention of ever returning? What if she decides that she can’t love me anymore? What if she says our love was a mistake?_

He nearly pulled his hair out at the thoughts, believing them all very possible outcomes. He had felt sick to his stomach, desperately trying to find any words he could say to her if she decided to end everything between them. _I’m so sorry. We can leave tomorrow. I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll do anything you ask. I love you, I love you, I love you._ He didn’t care if they went against what he’d been working towards, he didn’t care about the people he would lose if he followed through on them, he only cared about her. At the back of his mind he knew he couldn’t be so reckless, but that rationality was overpowered by the terrifying thought of losing her.

The only thing that kept him sane was the kiss she’d given him before she walked away. It was guarded, cold, stiff with control, but it was a kiss. He hung on to the tiny spark of hope that brief touch from her lips left him with and depended completely on it to warm him, to shield him from the bitter, heartbreaking loneliness that lurked around the corner of his future.

The tears blurred his eyes the whole time she was away, but he didn’t let them fall, he couldn’t. Giving into them would have felt as good as defeat and he couldn’t feel defeat. He couldn’t lose her, but he didn’t know if she was still his to lose.

When the door creaked open at her arrival, everything stilled and his whole world hung in uncertainty. _She came back, that has to be good,_ he told himself, finding the energy to stand up to face whatever words she would say to him. Words that could strip him everything or words that would let him hope she could still love him.

But the words that fell from her lips did neither. With every passing minute, he believed he had to be in a dream, that the gods have never been so kind to him.

_She loves me enough to stay, she loves our child enough to stay. She cared for the people enough to stay. She could find happiness here, with me. She wants to stay._

She was careful not to promise him anything, but it was enough. He waited for prideful satisfaction to fill him, but it never did. He didn’t care that he’d done what he swore himself he would do, the happiness that spread through him was only for her.

She looked the same, just as beautiful as ever, but she also looked different. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. All he knew was that she felt more real to him that ever. Her eyes shined with a clarity he hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime, before all the tragedies that befell her muddled them with mistrust and suspicion.

He couldn’t bring himself to fully regret everything he had done, but he did regret the way he went about it, using their private, happy moments to influence her political decisions. He used her weaknesses against her, to put it plainly. He hated the pain it caused her, the betrayal she felt. He was so consumed and singe-minded in his goal to help her come back to who she was, he didn’t stop to think about what she would say when she finally realized what he’d been doing. That pain was enough to deter him from ever doing it again. Her trust was precious to him, he wouldn’t take advantage of it, not anymore. He felt a weight heaved off his shoulders as he realized the space between them was clear of any deceit. _She wants to stay._

She wasn’t asleep yet, she was laying across his chest, naked and content, a tiny smile etched on her face. He didn’t know what she was thinking, only that it made her happy. Her eyes were closed, her fingers lightly grazing across his chest in lazy patterns.

He would hold his tears in longer. As silly as it sounded, they felt private, only for him. He didn’t want her to know how much he had worried, how much he grieved, the magnitude of the relief he felt at her simple words. She would only place blame on herself.

“We should have rooms prepared.” She says quietly.

“Hmm?”

“For Yara and the Dornish prince. Quentyn, I believe his name was. A cousin of the Martells.”

He hums in agreement. “Many of the rooms on the ground level were untouched, we’ll be able to find everyone suitable chambers.”

“I’ll ask Merri to oversee it tomorrow. A few days?”

“Aye, those arriving on foot should hopefully arrive no more than a week later.”

“Do you think Samwell Tarly will be agreeable?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“He told you with the intention of separating us.”

He suspects she’s right, and a bitter anger swells in his chest for his friend. _How could I have been so blind._ “If that was his intention he clearly failed. If Sam doesn’t…if he seems like he’d be a liability later, we can look elsewhere. But House Tarly is the next great house behind the Tyrells, he knows the lands and the people. It might be the cleanest route to take.”

“Would he have Highgarden?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. I’m not good with any of this.” He feels inadequate as he says those words, what sort of King felt lost at something as simple as naming a Warden and knowing what castle he would occupy?

She senses his unsureness, of course she does, and tilts her head to place a kiss on his chest. “I don’t know, either. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Always.”

She reaches for his hand, sliding her small fingers into his. “Some will know the truth about you, I’m sure.”

“How?”

“Varys’ ravens had to fly somewhere. I don’t think he sent one to every house, and I’m not even sure what they said, but he did send something. If that’s the case, how do you want to approach it?”

“There would be no point in denying it. Even if they’re bold enough to question your claim, it will be made clear to everyone that I have no plans of challenging you. Besides, as soon as everyone arrives, we’ll be married. I don’t need that Dornish Prince getting any ideas.”

She chuckles at his jealousy. “Don’t be so sure. They may know about you, but I don’t think the nature of our relationship is known to anyone.”

“I’ll be sure to make it known then.” He replies, only half joking.

“Jon Snow, you’re very possessive.”

“It’s as you said, a dragon doesn’t share.” They’re both teasing one another now, but truth is the root of their banter.

“Should the Prince of Dorne ask for my hand in marriage, I’ll be sure to tell him that I’ve bedded you many times and that I’m carrying your child. If that doesn’t deter him, well…I suppose the wise choice would be to consider his offer.”

“You’re funny.”

She looks up at him and smiles, nothing but ease and happiness on her face. “Fine, I won’t say that. I’ll just ask him why he thinks I would want a Prince when I already have a _King_ by my side.”

Coming from her lips, the title sounds so much more appealing. She hasn’t called him a King, not in his presence. He was always _Jon Snow_ to her. Not that he minded, he loved when she said his name. For his entire life it was uttered with disdain and annoyance, from Lady Catelyn to the stable boys. Even rapists and thieves at the wall smirked when they heard it, felt superior to him. But Daenerys Targaryen was above them all, and it was only ever coated in love and respect whenever it fell from her lips. But _King_ …the title evoked nothing but lust as is rolled off her tongue. Certainly, her calling him her King in front of the Dornish Prince would lead to nothing but embarrassment for him.    

“As much as I would love to hear you tell him that, it might not be very diplomatic.” He replies, his tone losing much of its lightness. As silly as their exchange had become, how much they told the others was important.

She hears his tonal shift and places a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I know. I think we should start by telling them of your parentage. If we don’t, they could suspect we don’t know or that we’re trying to keep it a secret. They could try to use it against us,” he nods in agreement. “We’ll make it clear to everyone that it doesn’t matter because we’re going to marry.”

“And the baby?”

“Not until it’s absolutely necessary.”

It wouldn’t be too long before they would have to tell other people. He expected they had another month of privacy, maybe less.

“Alright. Do you know what I think we should do?”

“What?” He can hear the smile in her words.

“We should marry tomorrow, just me and you. Davos can be our witness.”

“I would love nothing more than to marry you tomorrow, but it isn’t just you and me. Given your claim to the throne, I’m afraid important witnesses are imperative. Ser Davos is as good a man as you, but I don’t think others would be inclined to take the word of the Onion Knight. And unfortunately, your word doesn’t seem to mean much to some, they could choose to reject the marriage and plot against us instead.”

He knows she means Sansa, and he doesn’t disagree. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.

“I suppose you’re right.” He sighs. It isn’t just him and her, as much as he wishes it could be. Being in this room with her makes him forget everything else, forget that they have Kingdoms to rule. But soon, the _real_ ruling would begin, and politics would no doubt make its presence known in their chambers.

Their conversation comes to an end and a comfortable silence takes it place. As she continues her light touches on his chest, he begins to trail hers up and down her spine. He still can’t believe that they’re here now, after he was sure she would turn him away only a few hours ago, after she burned down the city planned to conquer the world only a few weeks ago. He feels the tears gathering in his eyes again and quickly works to distract himself.

“Arya spoke to you?”

“I was wondering when you would bring that up. I was hoping you forgot.”

“When?” He keeps his voice controlled, but his tone let’s her know that her safety isn’t something he takes lightly.

“Tonight, as I was walking back.”

“Dany, if she—”

“Grey Worm took her weapons and she never laid a hand on me. She only wanted to speak to me.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she replies quietly. “I believe her main objective was to convince me to order you away.”

He lets out a dark chuckle, his anger at his sister turning into pity. “I don’t understand why she thinks that’s still a possibility.”

“She hates me, I know that. But I think she just wants you to be happy.”

“No, she wants me to be happy away from you. If she truly cared for my happiness, she wouldn’t try to ambush you and make you feel guilty for my being here. That why you said what you said, isn’t it? That’s why you told me I could leave?”

“I…she wasn’t wrong. You _did_ say it was your duty. She said I was too afraid to ask you what you really want because you would choose to leave if you saw it as a possibility.”

“And you really believed I would choose to leave?”

“I don’t know, but you deserve to have the option.”

Again, he wants to suggest they marry the next day, just to stop her doubting. Instead he leans down to kiss her forehead, a ‘thank you’, an ‘I love you’.

“Did she threaten you?”

“No, she said you would be upset if you did.”

“At least she’s gotten that through her head. Still, I could ask her to leave the city, go back to Winterfell.”

“Don’t do that, Jon. We won’t meet her hostility with hostility, it’s what she wants. If you send you away, she’ll think it was me who told you to do it. I don’t want her to have the satisfaction of thinking she’s right. Besides, once she knows about the baby, I don’t think she’ll be inclined to make any threats towards me, she wouldn’t harm the child of her brother.”

“We’re going to tell her?”

“You can, if you want. It’s Sansa I don’t trust. I think Arya will put her love for your above anything else. And it’s not like she isn’t observant, she’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I might let her find out on her own. I can’t trust her with something so important to me, not yet.”

“Ask her to attend the meetings the next time you see her. Even if Sansa does surprise us by showing up, I want her to see that I don’t control you. That you’re a King in every way.”

Once again that word makes him feel inconveniently aroused, but he manages to suppress it. He would need to be able to hone the skill quickly.

“I’ll ask if I see her tomorrow. I’m sure after her talk with you, she has something to say to me. What about Tyrion?”

He fingers stop, and he feels her stiffen. She hates the man, but curiously, she always has a strong reaction when he’s brought up. Even the mention of Sansa doesn’t have such an effect on her.

“Do you want him there?” She asks tentatively.

“I’m afraid we would be lost without him, to be honest. He’ll be under strict orders to control himself. I’ll talk to him beforehand, make him aware of our slight change in plans. If he learns at the meeting, he’ll no doubt have some clever remark that undermines our authority.”

“Very well.”

“If you don’t want him to be there, I could speak to him separately…”

“No. I’m _trying_ , Jon. We’ll have him there because despite everything, he _is_ clever. I trust your judgment.”

“And I’ll trust yours. Say the word and he’ll no longer have the privilege of using his mind to better the world. He’ll spend the rest of his days in a cell.”

“Would it not be easier just to have him executed?”

“It would be, but it’s what he wants. I won’t give him what he wants.” It didn’t matter Tyrion did, it didn’t matter what improvements he made to the city, the man almost convinced Jon to kill her. He couldn’t forgive him for that, for abandoning her so harshly. For turning on her so drastically. If death was the release he craved, he wouldn’t get it from Jon. “He’ll advise us properly or he’ll never see the sunlight again.”

She looks up at him, a sad smile on her lips. “I don’t know how to feel when you say things like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never been so…harsh. You’re good, Jon. You’re better that most, better than me. Don’t lose that part of yourself. Not even for me.”

“I’m the same person, Daenerys. But I nearly lost you because I was too kind, too naïve, and too trusting.  I won’t risk this again. Everything I want requires me to be harsher and more assertive, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be cruel or unjust. I’ll do everything in my power to make this world a better place, to ensure our happiness as well as our people’s.”

“I don’t think I tell you enough how happy I am that you’re here. That you chose to rule with me. You gave up a peaceful, quiet life in the North for this. I’ll spend the rest of my life ensuring that you didn’t make the wrong choice,” she leans up to kiss up him. “I will make you _so_ happy, Jon Snow.”

_You already have._

He touches his lips to hers again, pouring all his love into it. He would never regret choosing this.

“We _really_ should sleep,” He finally says again. “You must be tired now or I didn’t do my job properly.”

She rolls onto the pillow beside his, smirking at his words. “You did your job perfectly, I’m absolutely exhausted.”

He smiles in return, giving her one last kiss before she turns away, and he finds his place behind her. He wraps his arm around her middle, a sigh of complete happiness falling from his lips when his hand goes to rest just over her stomach. She moves her hand over his and the tears gather in his eyes once more.

They’re quiet for the rest of the night, and he spends that time stroking her belly softly with his thumb a smile playing on his lips as he traces the all too familiar curve. Eventually, her breathing slows, her hand falls from his and her body relaxes fully against the feather mattress. He closes his eyes and thanks whoever can hear him for giving him this and threatening anyone who would dare to take it away. He looks down at her face, the fire’s soft light falling delicately on her beautiful features.

His mind is pulled back to their first night together, where he watched her long after she had fallen asleep, the light of the candle beside her bed making her the most alluring sight he’d ever seen. _You’ve exhausted me, Jon Snow. Let us sleep a few hours before I have you again._ He couldn’t sleep then either, he spent those few hours memorizing the shape of her nose and the curve of her lips, terrified that she would ask him to leave the next morning and pretend that it never happened.

A quiet tear escapes his eye, and the rest follow freely. He hugs her tight, falling asleep with fierce promises in his head to never fail her, to be the King she deserves, to love her the way she deserves.

\---------------

Three days later he’s sitting at the small table in their room, picking at his breakfast as he watches Merri help her into her clothing.

“That’s looks infinitely more comfortable,” He says, studying the clasps on her bodice, watching as Merri closes them with ease over Dany’s chest. “And easier to remove.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “It is, and under the coat, I don’t think anyone can tell.”

“How long before you need to adjust it again, Merri?”

“Khaleesi won’t fit in this much longer. Baby grows slow at first and then very quickly,” she turns to Dany. “You will grow big very soon, Khaleesi. This coat won’t close over your baby.”

Jon ducks his head to hide his amusement at the look Dany throws her handmaid. “ _Thank you_ for telling me, Merri.”

Merri, oblivious to her tone, continues to gently push her down onto the bench to begin on her hair. “I will have more coats made for you before that happens, but I can’t hide the baby forever. Why would you want to hide your baby, Khaleesi? Your Dothraki would be proud to celebrate.”

“I know, Merri. But not yet. A few weeks more and then you can tell anyone you like,” she says to the woman, sharing an excited smile with her.

Merri turns her full attention to Dany’s hair, and Jon sees her face fall in the mirror before she smooths it over and meets his eye, love gracing her every feature. It was for less than a second, but Jon can guess what the brief sadness was for. _Who_ it was for. Missandei should be here, celebrating the impending arrival of their child.

Dany had mentioned her in passing numerous times in the last few days. They were always fond memories, something the woman had said or done, something she would say or do now if she were here. Her death was never mentioned though. Daenerys would always change the subject when her voice would shift from fondness to sadness, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of why her friend was no longer here, of how her friend died.

He feels anger build up as he remembers. Her murder was unjust, inhumane. In the brief time he’d known her, she was nothing but soft-spoken, intelligent, and kind. And she loved Daenerys fiercely, she would have never abandoned her as Tyrion and Varys did. _She’s the Queen we chose._ She didn’t deserve to die the way she did, in chains, in front of her best friend and her lover. Cersei is to blame, of course, but he can’t help the anger that he feels for Tyrion. His incessant need to show mercy to his mad sister weakened Daenerys’ position time and time again and allowed Cersei to take the upper hand.

And he would need to see him again in a few hours, he was running out of time to speak with him.

The Ironborn and the Dornish were expected to arrive sometime tomorrow. Over the last few days, ravens trickled in from the others. Gendry Baratheon would arrive no later than the day after tomorrow, Edmure Tully as well. He expected everyone to be in King’s Landing in the next four days. Sansa had yet to even send a response and Jon was already making a list of men that he could trust to go and escort her down the city. He briefly suggested to Dany that it might be better if he went North to try and reason with her, she reminded him that he was a King and she was his subject.

He also needed to find Arya. Much to his annoyance, his little sister was keeping out of his way, probably assuming, correctly, that he wasn't happy about her conversation with Dany. But with Sansa’s absence, the North needed a representative at the council meetings and when they exchanged vows.  

“Jon?” Her soft voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks up to see her standing at the table, grabbing an apple slice on his plate and biting into it.

His eyes roam down her body, and he feels disappointment when he sees that she was correct, nobody could tell under the coat.

“You’ll be just as upset when we _can_ see it.” She comments at his look.

“Probably,” he looks around the room, surprised to find it was just the two of them. “Where’s Merri?”

She laughs softly. “She left to finish the guest rooms. What were you thinking so hard about?”

“I have much to do today,” he says, standing from the table. “I should get going. I want to track down Arya before I meet with Tyrion.”

Her smile falls into a thin line, but she nods in understanding. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her to him, lightly kissing her forehead. “And you?”

“Ser Davos wants to walk around the camp today, speak to the people and get an understanding of how many people are going to stay in the city.”

He gives her an encouraging smile, but sadness washes over him as he realizes she’ll spend the day being met with hateful glances and cold words. Ser Davos told her the day before yesterday that many of the people expressed a desire to leave once they were able to. Some because they didn’t want to live in a city with horrific memories, others because didn’t want to live in the same city as Daenerys Targaryen. Those words had a profound effect on her, he remembers the tears building in her eyes and the pain in her voice as she repeated them to him later that night. He tried to kiss them away, whisper in her ear how loved she was and how many of her people would follow her anywhere, but she asked him to stop. She said she wanted to feel the hurt, wanted to fight it herself until it faded from her mind.

“He also wants to start utilizing the dungeons in the Keep and establishing a more permanent city watch. He says the people are a lot less subdued during the night. It’s most petty theft but he doesn’t want it to escalate.”

“I’ll speak the Grey Worm about finding men for the guard.”

“It can’t just be Dothraki or Unsullied, we don’t need hostilities to grow. We should employ a fair amount of Westerosi men as well.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t think many men are qualified. And there aren’t many Lannister soldiers left…”

She nods at his words, shame passing over like a dark cloud in her eyes.

“If it’s necessary, a faction of the Unsullied can offer to train men who are interested.”

He nods in agreement, adding another task to his growing list of duties for the day. “I best get going then,” he says, leaning down to kiss her goodbye. “Please be safe.”

\---------------

He decided the best way to track down his elusive sister was to let her come to him. He excuses himself from his men and walks down a closed off street and into an empty building. He sits on a large section of the caved-in roof that they had yet to remove, the shingles pressing uncomfortable into his legs, flurries of snow falling onto him as he waits patiently for Arya to show up.

Not ten minutes later she walks in, a look of annoyance on her face. Her hand was on the hilt of her sword, not as a threat but as a display of strength. He stands up slowly, towering over her.

“I expect you want to lecture me about talking to _her_? Will you throw me in a cell, brother?”

Her contempt angers him. “No, I won’t. Daenerys assured me no threat was made. That was a wise choice,” he softens his next words, reminding himself that he shouldn’t draw the line between him and his family. “I don’t know how plainly you need to have it said to you, but she makes me happy. Despite what she did, I love her. I will not leave her side because I don’t want to. You need to understand that, Arya. You’ll be happier for it when you do.”

“She told you everything I said, then? I’m surprised.”

“She did, there aren’t secrets between us.” _Not anymore._ Their bond was stronger than ever.

A short hum is her only response. “I didn’t do anything against your wishes. I didn’t kill her, and I didn’t threaten to kill her. You didn’t say I couldn't talk to her.”

“I know.”

“So why do you want to speak with me?”

He heaves out a sigh. “We’ve sent summons to our allies, as well as the other larger houses. They’ll be arriving in the next few days to swear fealty and offer whatever help they can. The future of Westeros will be a major topic of discussion as well, so we would prefer if every Kingdom had a representative present,” she stares at him, eyebrow raised. “Sansa has not responded.”

She smiles at her sister’s insubordinate actions. Jon is quick to wipe it off.

“I wouldn’t be so proud. It would have been much less humiliating for her to come down freely instead of escorted into the city like a disobedient child.”

Anger flares across her face, her hand on her blade tightens. “You would humiliate her like that?”

“I don’t want to, but it seems I’ll have to.”

“She won’t bend the knee, especially not to her.”

“She will, she doesn’t have much of a choice, Arya,” he changes the topic, not wanting to get sidetracked, it was a conversation he needed to have with Sansa. “Since she clearly won’t be present, we would like you to be there.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, though she tries to hide it. “Why do you need one of us there? You may have bent the knee but you’re still Warden of the North, unless _she_ stripped you of the position after she found out who you really are.”

He can’t help the smug smile that pulls at his lips, the opportunity presented to him to show his sister how very wrong she is.

“I won’t have time for the duties as Warden, not with my duties as King,” he has the satisfaction watching her face fall, slowly morphing into disbelief. “Daenerys has no desire to replace House Stark as the seat of power in the North and we have no intention of taking away a position that is rightfully Sansa’s, not if it can be helped.”

“You’re going to be _King_? You’re going to rule with her?”

“I am. Did you think I would stand by her side and be nothing more than an advisor? Someone to keep her bed warm?”

“I didn’t…you said you didn’t want to be King. You made us swear not to tell.”

“Well, times have change. I’m here for her and she’s asked me to rule alongside her.”

“And you want to?”

“I want to.”

She sighs in resignation. “You’re going to marry her, then?”

“Yes,” he walks up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You want me to try, I am. It isn’t her against you, Sansa, and Bran. I would like you to be there, not to see me marry the Dragon Queen you despise, but the woman I love.”

She looks at the ground, her hand now fidgeting with the pommel of her sword. When she looks up, she gives one last, half-hearted attempt, knowing it’s useless. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“Not a single thing.”

She nods, expecting the answer. “Fine, I’ll be there. For both.”

“Thank you.” He walks past her, happy to end their conversation there.

\---------------

He looks even worse than before, his beard longer and tangled, his eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep. He hasn’t bothered to change his clothes either, though Jon sees the untouched, neatly folded garments sitting near the window.

Jon looks him over, Tyrion fidgeting under his gaze. “You’ll _use_ the next bath brought up to you, and you’ll clean up that beard as well.”

Tyrion doesn’t respond and Jon goes to take a seat at the table, leaning back against the chair, looking at the man expectantly. Tyrion smiles a bit, raising his eyebrows, and makes his way over to the table.

“I must say, Your Grace, you’ve mastered the skill of displaying Kingly superiority, almost as if you were born with it," he smiles at his own quip. "How does the Queen feel about that?”

“She enjoys it.”

He lets out a dark chuckle. “Of course, she does,” pulling himself onto the chair with a tired sigh. “I expect you’re here for an update on the sewers? I’m trying, Your Grace, but it’s rather hard to do without knowing the extent of the damage done to the previous system. It would be cost effective to reuse as much of the old one as possible, with improvements of course. I’ve had nothing but time to look at the maps and in truth, the system in place wasn’t so terrible, only the maintenance was.”

Jon gives him a nod of acknowledgement. “You’ll have a few days to walk to city, survey the damage. Then I expect you to sit in here until you can give me a properly detailed plan.”

“Can I go tomorrow? This room is getting rather stuffy. If you want me to keep a sane mind, I should be let out every so often.”

“Prove your worth and your leash won’t be so short. But no, you can’t start tomorrow. Yara Greyjoy and Prince Quentyn are arriving tomorrow, the rest soon after. We’ll be busy in the coming days.”

“Me as well?”

“You as well. We’ve had a change in plans, the future of Westeros is all that will be discussed. Plans need to be written, titles given, and a council formed.”

“A change in plans?”

“Yes, Daenerys has abandoned her conquest of the world. We’re going to stay here in Westeros and rule.”

Again, he enjoys the satisfaction that fills him as another one of her doubters is proven wrong. The words have an almost comical effect on Tyrion, his eyes suddenly become more aware, the creases in his forehead smooth over, his mouth upturns in a genuine, small smile.

He lets out another laugh, staggered and relieved. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do anything, she decided on her own.”

“You led her back to reason, though.”

“I didn’t abandon her like everyone else,” he snaps back. Tyrion has the decency to look guilty. “I helped her find her way back to herself because that’s what you do when you love someone. You _help_ them.”

“I _did_ love her, Jon.”

“You didn’t love her the way she deserves,” he clears his throat, bringing his emotions back under control. “As I said, you’ll have much to do, and that now includes advising us on establishing an effective council. You care for the people, Tyrion, now is your chance to prove it.”

He nods earnestly, looking too excited for the duties thrust upon him. Jon doesn’t like it.

“Keep in mind that your advice won’t always be taken, yours won’t be the only voice we hear. You will not speak out of turn, you will not be insolent, and you will not disrespect her, no matter how much you hate her now. She is your Queen. Undermining her in front of---”

“It would be stupid, I know,” he says, holding his hands up in apology when Jon shoots him a look at his interruption. “It won’t be easy, Your Grace. Far from it. Her allies declared for her before all of this happened. Thanks to Varys, they’ll most likely know about your claim, they could turn to you when they see what she’s done.”

“We’re going to marry. Whoever has the greater claim to that damn chair will be irrelevant.”

Tyrion shakes his head sadly. “A solution that should have been brought to the pair of you as soon as we knew…a lapse in judgement on my part.”

“Just add it to the list, Tyrion,” lingering on actions they should have taken only bring him frustrating grief. “Our marriage will take place as soon as everyone is here, they’ll act as witnesses. It won’t be a grand affair.”

“Good…” he nods to himself, before looking back at Jon. “Good. It’s a display of stability and a consolidation of power. The best you can do when they walk into this mess is show them solidarity. With you standing by her side, she doesn’t seem so dangerous.”

He scowls at his words.

“Your Grace, I know you hate the topic, but it’s important, especially now. They’ll want to know every detail of your plans for the future,” Jon knows what he’s getting. _The succession._ “I know you’re fully devoted to her, I shouldn’t have suggested what I did. It was…petty. And insulting to the both of you. I would suggest keeping her inability to conceive to yourselves for now, it weakens your rule and you can’t have that, but you can name an heir. Let them believe it’s merely a precaution until she bears of a child of her own but…It needs to be someone who could realistically wear the crown if something should happen, someone whose children could wear crown long after we’re gone.”

He wants to see it again, that looks of astonished disbelief as he’s proven wrong again, but Jon resists the urge. He keeps his mask on his face, all the while responding to Tyrion’s in his head. _She can do the impossible, Tyrion. In a few months’ time she’ll bring our child into the world and they’ll be the crowned prince or princess of Westeros. Our heir. A Targaryen heir._

“I’ll think on it, but it won’t be discussed in the near future. They won’t expect an heir immediately after we marry. I meant what I said before, the succession isn’t a matter of concern right now, the city is. The point of these meetings is to gather whatever assistance we can for the city. We’ll need to name a Warden of the South and we’ll need to appoint someone to carry out your duties as Warden of the West. The rest of the Kingdoms need to function smoothly while our attention is focused on King’s Landing.”

“Why name me Warden at all?”

“It’s easier, the Lannister name holds power in the West.”

“It won’t for long when they learn that their Liege Lord is being held captive in the capital.”

“Not captive. Their Liege Lord has the highest honor of advising the King and Queen of Westeros. While he’s fulfilling his duties, he’ll appoint the most qualified person he can find to manage the affairs of Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion narrows his eyes at him. “King’s Landing is going to change you, Jon Snow.”

“I need to change. I won’t be taken advantage of because people see me as weak and easily manipulated.”

“You’re doing this all for her?”

“I would do anything for her.”

“I’m beginning to see that. I admire your devotion, you’ll do what the rest of us failed to do.”

“I will,” he stands to leave. “Use the bath provided for you and change into a fresh set of clothes. You need to look the part, same as everyone else. If you do your job properly, I might see to it that you get a flagon of wine as a reward.”

\---------------

The braids in her hair are more intricate than they have been in recent weeks, the top twisted into a crown on her head, ringlets softly framing her face, the rest of it falling freely in soft waves down her back. She has on a charcoal colored coat, the stitching of the fabric softly mimic the scales of her dragon. She has her chain draped across her chest, the cape clasped at the top falling down her back in waves of muted red. She looks beautiful, perfect, every bit the Dragon Queen. She looks like Dany as well, everything about her looks softer, kinder, more open, but she doesn’t look excited.

He’s standing behind her, watching her face in the mirror as she looks herself over, her hands fidgeting in nervousness. He glances at himself, his own nerves subdued as he sees how natural they look together. He doesn’t out of place next to Daenerys Targaryen. She’d had a new gambeson made for him, the same color as her coat. She was nervous to give it to him, telling him he didn’t need to wear the colors if he didn’t want to. He had smiled at her unsureness and told her he’d wear it with pride. He still felt undeserving of the red, unnatural with prospect of wearing it on his own clothes, but black was always his color. Black was imposing and authoritative, and so very Targaryen. Naturally, the gambeson came with ink black trousers, though he kept on his old, worn boots. Lastly, she’d given him a belt, black in color, displaying the same detailed scales as her coat. The silver buckle on the belt matched her chain and stood out against the dark leather. He decided to forgo his cloak, leaving it draped across one of the chairs at the table. It was a show of strength, the thing that gave him the confidence to speak for his people with passion, but he no longer needed it. He wasn’t the King in the North anymore, he was the King of Westeros. The cloak was a symbol of his roots, but today wasn’t about representing the North. As usual, his hair was kept back in a tight bun. 

He places his hands at her waist, causing her fidgeting to still and her eyes to meet his in the mirror. She gives him a tentative smile, and he returns it with the most confident one can muster.

In just a few minutes, they would make their way to the courtyard to meet with the Lords of Westeros. Their arrivals had gone smoothly, but the introductions were always kept short, Daenerys preferring to stay busy with her projects rather than entertaining their guests. They were welcome to walk the city as well, though only Yara Greyjoy took up Daenerys’ offer. Jon quickly grew fond of the woman and her loyalty to Dany, thankful that she had another friend she could talk to. The rest chose to remain in the castle and rest, most of their journeys being long and harsh with the cold winds of the North following them.

“Are you ready?” He asks.

“Not at all, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one thing I never understood is that they had her go from being Queen of Westeros to wanting to dominate the world. I know it was necessary for the MQ plot, they literally needed every reason in the world to justify her death, but I hated it. So, I could find a reason for it, Daenerys doesn't understand where is came from either. 
> 
> I think of of the last steps she needed to take was to realize how she's changed and acknowledge it. It wouldn't make sense for her to want to begin healing without understanding what she's lost in herself, so that's where we are.
> 
> Anyway, you know how it goes, one step forward...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so sorry for the later than usual posting. Earlier this month, my family experienced a sudden loss and I'm still completely heartbroken over it. Writing does help keep my mind busy, but it's still something I'm trying to come to terms with. Obviously, family will be my priority for the next several months, a lot of us are coming together to be there for the people who need it the most, whether that's buying groceries, keeping their house cleaned, or just babysitting to give them time alone. I'm not sure how this will affect how frequently I upload, but I just thought I'd let you guys know.
> 
> As always, thank you for the kind words for the last chapter! I enjoy reading every comment, even if I don't always respond. 
> 
> Okay, so, please think of this as a part one of a longer chapter. I had a decent amount written, but I still had a long way to go, so I just decided to split the chapter. Because I split it, not a lot happens in this part, so I apologize if it's...underwhelming. It doesn't necessary end in a natural place, but keep in mind that it wasn't meant to be the stopping point. Hopefully I can have the second part finished and posted in the next two weeks. But again, that's a tentative schedule. Anyway, I'll see you at the bottom :)

Before they round the corner, he stops her, motioning for their guards to continue ahead and give them a moment of privacy.

She looks up at him, pride coursing through her as she takes in his confident stance and unwavering certainty. She resists the urge to feed off it, and instead focuses her attention on matching it. _I’m a dragon._ It’s something she’s been repeating to herself every day whenever she feels the still fragile conviction wavering. It helped her keep her shoulders from hunching over whenever someone told her she’d killed their family, or took away their homes, or shoved her efforts away with disgust. It helped her quell the brief frustration she felt when they’d take what she’d offered in apology and still treat her as they did.  It did nothing to keep her mind from running rampant with the guilt, the anger, or the grief, but she felt it was preparing her for the moment they finally succeeded in pulling her under. She knew they would, she just didn’t know when and she didn’t want to rush towards it. She would fight it herself, and not wait to feel Jon’s hand close around hers to pull her up.

He looks at her with a soft smile, though he says nothing to help her feel the power of her words. She’s glad.

“If he looks at you like that again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back.” He jokes, lightening the heavy anticipation of walking around the corner and into the courtyard.

She rolls her eyes and laughs, remembering their brief introduction to Prince of Dorne a few days prior. The appreciation for her looks was hard to miss, he made no effort to hide it. Jon had stood behind her as the Prince introduced himself, but she could feel the tension rolling of him. He was perfectly friendly, if not a bit too friendly, but she wasn’t any in way offended by his greeting. In fact, it was one of the only greetings she’d walked away from that didn’t consist of awkward tension. Yara, of course, treated her like an old friend, the warmest reception she’d received. Edmure Tully acted as if the whole affair was an inconvenience, though he was polite enough. Robin Arryn was clumsily nervous in his greeting, but Lord Royce was cold enough for the both of them. To her disappointment, Gendry Baratheon was guarded in his arrival, unable to meet her eye, though he kept trying to catch Jon’s. Samwell Tarly arrived only the night before and was quickly shown to his rooms to rest, so she and Jon had yet to see him.  

“Well, soon enough our plans will be known to everyone. That should stop his looks, or at the very least, stop _you_ from being so jealous.”

“I guess we’ll see but I won’t promise anything.”

She shoots him an amused smirk before she smooths her face and takes a deep breath. “Alright, no point in stalling.”

He reaches for her hand and gives it a small squeeze. “We can do this.”

“We can.” With that, she turns to walk around the corner, waiting for Jon to take his place by her side before they do.

Everyone is already waiting patiently around the table, rising to stand as they see them approach, some less enthusiastically than others. _They’ll be quicker to stand before they leave the city, I’ll make sure of it._

Jon throws her a quick smile before he moves away to take his place at one end of the table, and she goes to stand at the other, nodding once to everyone, granting her permission for them to resume their seats. A quiet muttering of _Your Grace_ ’s spread across the table as they do. She makes a note of who stays silent, Arya and Sam. Curiosity passes through them as well when they notice that Jon remains standing.

She takes a moment to look around the table, trying to read everyone’s faces and understand where she stands in the eyes of the people who would help her run the country. She first sees Ser Davos, standing a behind Jon, he gives her an encouraging smile that warms her heart. _Even if it’s only a little, he does care for me._ Tyrion is two seats away from her watching her with curious eyes. She thought it best to have him unshackled for the meeting, he would be their Warden of West and Lord of Casterly Rock in name and needed to hold some respect with the others, but she feels a small pang of annoyance when she sees his hands unchained.   _He’s still my prisoner. He still betrayed me._ Next to him is Gendry Baratheon, looking extremely uncomfortable and out of place. His eyes are trained on the table in front of him, though she can see them fighting to glance up across the table. She moves her eyes where his desperately want to go and to her surprise, she sees Arya Stark sitting across from him, unbothered and unworried about the boy in front of her. Arya meets her stare with cold indifference. Daenerys looks to her left to see her cousin, Robin Arryn, who looks bored already. Lord Royce stands behind him, stoic and proud. Next to him and on Jon’s right is Samwell Tarly, nervous worry on his features. On Jon’s left is Edmure Tully, sitting up straight and proud. She pulls her eyes forward, looking to her right to see Prince Quentyn sitting back with ease, a smile on his lips as he watches her.

Lastly, she looks to her left, grateful that Yara has taken the other seat next to her. The woman looks up at her with an easy smirk. “Your Grace, may I be the first to congratulate you on your victory. Taking the city seemed easy enough.”

An uncomfortable silence blankets the table as she sees some of the others share grimaces. She doesn’t feel a shred of pride at Yara’s praise, she only feels shame. She knows Jon’s eyes are on her, but she won’t look back, it would make everything too easy. She feels Tyrion’s scrutinizing gaze burning into her as well. “Thank you, though it wasn’t without cost. Such a victory shouldn’t be celebrated, nor will it be repeated.” She lets her shame bleed into her voice, but it still rings clear and strong.

Yara reluctantly accepts her words, the smirk falling from her face. The seriousness replacing it told Daenerys that although she’d offered her congratulations, the horrors she’d seen were not taken lightly.

She clears her throat, ready to move forward as smoothly as possible. “Thank you all for arriving quickly on such short notice. We have much to talk about.”

She’s met with more silence and more glances passed around the table.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Lord Arryn?”

At Jon’s words, she looks at the boy, who keeps looking up to the man behind him. Lord Royce is motioning for him to speak, his irritation at Robin’s hesitancy palpable.

“Lord Arryn?” His voice is harder, more commanding.

“I—yes…Lord Snow. We…well, I, received a raven not two moons ago from Lord Varys, your Master of Whispers, Your Grace,” he says, whipping his head across the table to Daenerys. She ignores his look, meeting Jon’s across the table. _That took no time at all._ “He…well it mentioned Lord Snow, and…” she waits patiently, softening her features to let him know she won’t be upset with his next words. “It said Lord Snow was the son of your brother and Lyanna Stark. That his real name is Aegon Targaryen.”

It’s quiet for another beat before Edmure Tully chimes in. “Yes, I received a similar letter. I believe it referred to Lord Snow at the _rightful heir_ of the Seven Kingdoms?” he says, throwing her a pointed look. She meets it with a gaze of steel, unwilling to tolerate being talked down to by the man. He wilts under her gaze and turns it to Jon, contempt on his face. _He’s Lady Catelyn’s brother, of course he has no love for Jon._

“Rightful heir?” Yara questions in confusion and obvious distaste.  She clearly hadn’t been a recipient of the letter, Varys most likely assumed Yara wouldn’t care.

“I did as well, Your Grace.” Gendry offers quietly.

She looks at Prince Quentyn, waiting for his confirmation. He looks slightly surprised at the news and gives her a shrug. “It seems Lord Varys did not think me important enough to receive such a letter.”

Daenerys nods. _The secret is out, then._

“He also said you were mostly likely going to have him killed. Is that why he isn’t here? I presume you wanted to keep this bit of news quiet.” Edmure asks, an edge to his voice.

“It would be wise not to presume anything, Lord Edmure. Lord Varys was executed for plotting against his Queen. He tried to have me poisoned.” she replies. That’s the one thing that doesn’t bring her shame. She wasn’t wrong in executing Varys. “But the contents of the letter are true.”

He looks surprised at her confirmation, either because it isn’t a false claim or the fact that she doesn’t deny it.

“ _Rightful heir?_ ” Yara questions again, still trying to understand.

“Y-yes. _Rightful_ heir,” Sam answers. She knows it’s his dislike for her that’s giving him the courage to speak. “Rhaegar and Lyanna were married in a secret ceremony in Dorne.”

“Rhaegar was married to Princess Elia.” Prince Quentyn retorts, sitting up from his relaxed position.

Sam leans forward, meeting the Prince’s eye. “He was, but the marriage was annulled.”

“Is there proof of this?” Yara asks.

“Yes, I transcribed High Septon Maynard’s private diary at the Citadel. In it, he wrote of the annulment and of Rhaegar’s marriage to Lyanna.”

“Well, a diary in the Citadel isn’t enough proof for me,” she bites back. She looks up at Jon. “With all due respect, Lord Snow, I pledged House Greyjoy to Daenerys Targaryen. That won’t change.”

The edge of his lip quirks up in a small smile at her words. He appreciates her loyalty to Daenerys, he said as much after they’d welcomed her to the city.

“It’s not at the Citadel, I brought a copy of it here,” Sam replies, more conviction in his words. He looks up Jon, “I can go get, Your Grace, it’s just in my rooms.”

Jon’s flexes his jaw in slight irritation at his friend. “That won’t be necessary, Sam. The Queen confirms it, I confirm it. That should be enough.”

“I would like to see the evidence.” Lord Edmure says, his eyes hard and mistrustful.

“I would as well, Your Grace,” Yara says, looking to Daenerys. “I trust your word, but I would like to see it for myself.”

Daenerys nods in understanding.

“Very well. Sam, would you be so kind as to bring your copy to the next meeting we hold?” She asks, wanting to see how he reacts when she speaks to him directly.

He stares at her for a moment before nodding, averting his eyes.

“And this evidence, does it prove that he is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen? They may have gotten married, but does the diary say anything of Lady Lyanna’s supposed pregnancy?”

“It doesn’t, My Lord. But Bran Stark saw it—”

“He _saw_ it?”

“Uncle, I believe him. Bran is…he isn’t the same. He can see things that happened in the past. If Bran saw it then it must be true.”

Lord Edmure’s eyes lose some of their steel when his niece addresses him, the mistrust fading to a small burn.

“What does this mean for the Kingdoms?” Lord Royce asks. “If you’re Rhaegar’s trueborn son, you have the greater claim to the throne,” he turns to Daenerys, “Would you not want your brother’s own son to take his rightful place on the throne, Your Grace?” The insistence in his voice tells her that he isn’t put off by the idea. In fact, he seems very eager for that exact scenario to take place, for her to step away and let Jon wear the crown alone. She expected such a reaction, but it slashes at her pride just the same.

The barely contained anger on Jon’s face tells her that the man was lucky he addressed her the way he did. She isn’t angry, though. She doesn’t feel threatened at his bold words because they mean nothing. They can’t hurt them or tear them apart the way they almost did before.

“He will, Lord Royce. At my side.” She looks at Jon, silently asking him if he would like to announce their betrothal.

“I will not take the throne from Daenerys, rightful heir or not,” he throws a look of warning to Sam, the man cowers beneath it. “Her Grace and I are to marry, and we will rule the Seven Kingdoms together.”

“You’re going to be _King_?” Sam asks, looking at her in disbelief. It irks her. He’s one of many who believed she would harm or threaten Jon over his claim. Not one person saw how much she loved him.

Yara looks up at Daenerys in question, and she subtlety nods. _Yes, I want this._ She accepts it without a fuss.

On her other side, Prince Quentyn lets out a disappointed sigh. When she looks at him in question, he simply shrugs in amusement, as if to say, _I would be foolish if I didn’t plan on suggesting it._

She tries to gage the reactions of everyone else, but her eyes are immediately pulled to Jon, who has a single eyebrow raised, staring intently at the Prince of Dorne, who doesn’t seem to notice.

Lord Edmure lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but if he _is_ you brother’s son, doesn’t that make you his _aunt_ by blood?”

“It does.” Arya finally chimes in. Her tone isn’t disrespectful, but it is blunt, telling everyone she finds it disconcerting as well.

Daenerys takes a breath, ready to respond, but to her surprise, Tyrion speaks up.

“She is his aunt. My father and mother were first cousins. And if I’m not mistaken, Lady Stark, your grandfather was wed to a cousin of his. The Queen’s relation to Lord Snow is not so strange, nor is grounds for dismissing the marriage.”

“I suppose you’re right. And it isn’t as strange as brothers and sisters.” She replies, eyes narrowed.

“It’s not. This marriage will dismiss any ideas of people rebelling against the Queen in favor of her nephew. It also brings the North smoothly back into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s the best course of action to take.” At his last words, he looks at her, resignation on his face. _Good, he should know he can do nothing to stop us from ruling together._

“Is the North still his to give?” Lord Edmure asks. “He’s not Ned Starks son, bastard or trueborn. The North belongs to Ned Stark’s eldest surviving son, Brandon.”

“My brother doesn’t want to be Lord of Winterfell or Warden, he told me as much. It belongs to Sansa. Besides, _she’s_ our father’s eldest trueborn child.” Arya says to her uncle, daring him to question the idea.

“Yet, Lady Sansa is not here,” he says instead, looking up at Jon. “Perhaps Lord Snow doesn’t plan on abdicated his title as Warden in favor of his cousin.”

“ _King_ Jon,” Daenerys replies coldly, her patience with the man’s attitude growing thin. “We did write to Lady Sansa, asking her to come down to the capital to represent the North and its interests. We had every intention of naming her Wardeness of the North, but she chose not to come and accept the title.”

“Is that why you’re here?” He asks Arya.

Arya nods and meets her uncles authoritative gaze with her own.

“When do you plan to marry? Weddings are always exciting. I wouldn’t be opposed to a feast and a barrel of wine.”

She throws Yara a grateful look, glad to move away from the subject of the North.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we won’t be having a feast. It’ll be a quiet affair, with each of you present, acting as witnesses. We won't spare any food or wine for a private feast, everything we have goes to the people.”

“Well that just won’t do, Your Grace. I have brought plenty of wine from Dorne, along with the food you requested. Surely, we can save one barrel for a small, intimate celebration.”

“Prince Quentyn, a feast is not one of our main concerns, though you’re free to celebrate in any way you wish. The point of our marriage is to prevent those foolish enough to take up arms against the Queen, they can’t expect me to start a war with my wife. Our marriage will bring stability to the realm. Too many people know already, and I expect word of my parentage will eventually spread beyond these walls. I won’t ask you to keep it a secret, that would only make it more dangerous. I won’t allow my claim to become a threat to hers.”

The Prince looks impressed and slightly amused at Jon’s outburst and tilts his head in apology. “Of course, though I do still believe it should be something more than a quiet affair. You are King and Queen of Westeros, no? Whether you like it or not, events such as these cannot go on without your people’s knowledge.”

“He’s right,” Tyrion says, before turning to Jon. “News of your parentage will spread quickly throughout the nobles, I expect most of the lesser houses will know who you are in less than a year’s time. But news like that doesn’t spread through the common folk, and they don’t usually care. Your royal blood needs to be acknowledged publicly, to strengthen your position and make the people aware that… the Targaryens have come into power once again.”

“Are you suggesting a coronation?” She asks. “We’ve just told you we don’t have any resources to spare for a wedding, let alone a coronation.”

“I’m not suggesting a costly affair, but perhaps a small celebration.”

Daenerys considers his words, trying not to let her opinions of him cloud her judgment. “The people won’t celebrate it,” she says quietly. “I’m not blind. I know how they see me. My marriage won’t bring them joy, nor will a coronation.”

“So, we’ll do this all privately and announce it to them?” he responds, scratching at his beard, a thoughtful look on his face. She feels herself slipping into the past, when he was her Hand and someone she could trust. She feels the loss of it, despite the hatred she has for him now.

Jon sighs heavily, frustration on his face. “That could lead some to believe we’ve used our limited resources on indulgent affairs for the wealthy. The people aren’t stupid, they know whatever we use for ourselves could have gone to them. And with Cersei’s indifference to their well-being, they’ll be quick to label us as the same.”

She hears a hum of agreement around the table, personal grudges and opinions set aside for a moment to contemplate the issue at hand.

“They’ll both happen privately, the wedding and the coronation. Invite your most loyal bannerman, they’ll be witnesses from all around the Kingdoms, they’ll spread the word faster. But the fact remains that it isn’t something that will lift the people’s spirits and I don’t fault them for it…” she pauses for a moment, trying to think of something that would be best for the people. “We’ll have a celebration of sorts. Prince Quentyn, I apologize, but much of your wine will go to the people. We thought the best way to keep the peace was to limit their drink as much as we could while they city is in disarray, but I suppose one day of indulgence wouldn’t do any harm. The Unsullied will keep watch for any unruly behavior. And better food. What we give them now is just to keep them fed, there isn’t much flavor to it. Obviously, we can’t use all of it in a single day but something different than what they usually receive.”

Silence fills the room as they sit with her words, nerves start to bubble in her belly. _I am a dragon. I can’t second guess myself._

“So, you would be wed privately, crowned privately, and the subsequent celebrations would be extended to the people?” Lord Edmure asks.

“I don’t think it would be wise to hand out goblets of wine and asks them to toast to their new monarchs.” Tyrion replies.

“Nor do I,” she says, hating that she agrees with the little man. “But still, the feast will be theirs to have. It might not be a happy occasion for them, but it will be a positive one. We’ll halt the rebuild for a day, though any willing to be on guard duty along with the Unsullied or caretakers for the young or sick will still be welcome to participate, food and drink brought to them.”

Across the table, Jon smiles softly at her, pride swimming in his eyes.

She acknowledges it with a smile of her own and quickly looks away, resisting the urge to hold onto it to strengthen her confidence.

“That could work,” Ser Davos says, stepping forward. “If they ask why we tell them the King and Queen wanted their people to have a feast in honor of their marriage. We make them aware of the reason, but we don’t force them to celebrate it.”

Jon nods in agreement. “That settles it then, we’ll marry and hold a small coronation ceremony, the following day will be the people’s feast. I’ll inform the kitchens later to give them time to prepare.”

“When will you marry?” Arya asks, looking solely at Jon. She isn’t happy but she accepts it.

“No later than the day after tomorrow. There’s no need to take the day to ourselves, they’ll be quick affairs, so we’ll be in the city most of the day,” He looks to her, silently asking if she approves of the idea. With her agreement, he continues. “It’ll take place around super. As we’ve said, a private feast isn’t something we want to use resources on, but we won’t discourage any celebrations you want to have amongst yourselves, so long you don’t overindulge.”

They all accept his words, though she feels hesitancy surrounding the table. She knows it’s her, they doubt everything about her. Instead of anger, she pushes herself towards understanding. Their wariness of her must be met with actions that reassured them of her quest for peace, of her promise of no more bloodshed or lives lost.

“Will you take your Targaryen name?” Arya asks quietly to Jon. Daenerys can tell she has a more personal motive. What she’s really asking him is if he would abandon his old name, and subsequently his old identity as her brother, for his Targaryen side. For her.

Whatever he chose, she would support him. She doesn’t think she could ever call him Aegon, especially in private. He would only ever be Jon Snow, her stubborn, brooding, Northern love. Aegon was a King’s name, to be sure, but so was Jon. It wasn’t the name that commanded respect, it was the man.  His name didn’t matter to her, she would be proud to forever have her name tied to the name Jon Snow just as she would be to Aegon Targaryen.

She sees him thinking on her words, a solemn look on his face. He looks up at her, trying to read what she wants, read her opinions on the matter, but she only offers him a smile in return, hoping he knows that it’s his choice.

“I’ll always be Jon Snow, no matter the truth. It’s the name I grew up with and the name that shaped who I am, but Aegon is…it’s a King’s name,” she can already tell what he truly wants. And that he’ll do what he thinks is best for everyone anyway. “Aegon Targaryen VI of my name, all that,” he says with a wave of his hand, “will not be met with the scorn that Jon Snow would.”

She wants nothing more than to walk around the table and take his face in her hands and scold him for speaking so harshly of the name she loves, instead she tries to make him realize that he can have what he wants and they would find a way to make it work. “I don’t think that’s true,” she starts, her eyes only on him. “Everyone will know who you are, whether you call yourself Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen. But people don’t know Aegon, they don’t follow Aegon, they follow Jon Snow. The North is…they would take offense if you abandoned the name Ned Stark gave you, even if it is Snow, especially if you replaced it with the name Targaryen. The Targaryen name isn’t celebrated…there isn’t a reason you _need_ to take it…it would probably do more harm than good.”

She feels everyone’s eyes on her, but she keeps her sights on Jon. For the moment, no one is looking his way, and his love and adoration is unrestrained.

“She may be right, Jon,” Arya says, somewhat begrudgingly, looking to her brother. His mask slips back on when his sister addresses him, although Daenerys hopes she saw her brothers unfiltered love for her. “People will know who you are no matter what name you take. They’ll call you whatever they want no matter what you choose to go by. Two Targaryens on the throne would spread more panic than anything else. Even if it is who you are, the name itself carries a power. If you take the name, others will fear that you’re taking everything that comes with it. _Fire and blood_.” With her last words, Arya looks to her. Although it’s subdued, Daenerys can hear Arya’s disgust at her house words.

It isn’t difficult, but she does have to make a small effort not to shrink at the girl’s tone.

“So, either way, me being named King will cause problems.” He replies, annoyance coating his words. He gives her an apologetic grimace that she quickly chases away with a stern look.

“Problems we can face and solve together,” she says, “Arya’s right, people will call you what they wish. You may as well be crowned King with the name that feels most right.”

“Are we to have a King with a bastard’s name, then?” Lord Robin asks, his tone colored with youthful curiosity rather than offense. Behind him Lord Royce throws Jon a worried look. Jon, of course, shakes his head slightly, knowing the boy isn’t trying to be disrespectful.

“Seems so, my Lord,” Prince Quentyn answers, a gentle smile on his face.

Arya looks ready to snap at both of them, giving her cousin a look that makes him cower slightly, though the Prince is just as unbothered by her stare as he was by Jon’s.

“My Lord, Jon _Snow_ will be the name of your king,” She says with a stern kindness. “It deserves respect.”

“O-of course, Your Grace.”

 Jon quickly looks around the room, an audible sigh of relief leaving him when he finds no signs of protest.

“Jon Snow, then,” he finally says. “On a final note, the Queen and I have decided to be married by a Septon, the people in the south are followers of the Faith, it would be best to follow their tradition,” with no one voicing opposition, the planning of their marriage was complete. “Now that we’ve got trivial matters sorted, we need to go over matters concerning the city.”

At his words, everyone sits up straighter, the commanding tone naturally leading them to follow.

“Yes, there’s much to do,” she starts, clasping her hands together at her waist, determined not to fall behind him like the others. “I want to thank you again all for bringing what supplies and grain you could, I assure you not a thing will go to waste. As of now, we’re feeding the people from the castle’s own kitchens, keeping all the food stores in one area allows us to guard it better and ensure theft will not occur.”

“The medical supplies are being distributed amongst the camps in the city as we speak,” Jon says. “While the main camp is right outside the Keep, we have a smaller one closer to the gates, and a few scattered in the city.”

“Are the people to live in tent cities in the streets, then? I’ve seen the sick houses and the orphanages but—”

“Those are only temporary,” Daenerys cuts Arya off gently, not wanting to be hostile to the girl, no matter how cold she’s being towards her. She wants to be better. “The air grows colder every day, if we’re able to give them the small comfort of a warm shelter, we will. As of now, we’ll continue to set up temporary shelters to get people indoors. I want to have the tents gone within the month.”

“And the reconstruction?” Yara asks, leaning forward.

“That will take quite a while,” she says quietly, the firmness of her voice wavering as she silently acknowledges that the months, possibly years, of labor are only necessary because of her. The long- term consequences of the choices she’s made will ensure that guilt will be her shadow for years to come.

“With much of the city…leveled, we’re taking this opportunity to rebuild it _better_ , from the bottom. Lord Tyrion has been charged with seeing to the sewer system,” at Jon’s words, Arya lets out an amused chuckle. “He’ll fix anything that can be improved and once it’s necessary, we’ll establish a crew of soldiers or civilians to maintain the cleanliness of it. It could be an employment opportunity for those who need it.”

“And so, what would you like us to do?” Prince Quentyn asks him, leaning back into his chair and propping his right leg up across his left. “We have brought food, supplies. We will be the witnesses at your wedding. Will you have need of us after?”

“We will gladly accept anything more you can give us,” Jon replies seriously, his tone free of animosity towards the Dornishman. “However, Her Grace and I understand that you all have people you’re charged with protecting, Kingdoms that you have a duty to. We will not take offense if you feel you can’t stay any longer than a fortnight.”

Prince Quentyn nods, satisfied with his answer. “I myself cannot stay long, but I would gladly offer the services of half the Dornish army to help with the city. So long as you can ensure the safety and health of my men.”

“I can.”

“Good. I hope that is sufficient.”

“It’s more than sufficient,” Jon replies, surprise coloring his words at their exchange. “Thank you.”

“I can offer the same,” Yara says to her, though she passes Jon small nod before giving her attention back to Daenerys. “Perhaps I can stay a few moons. The Ironborn can be a bit rowdy, and Gods know they’re hostile towards any mainlanders. They’ll be at your command, though it might go smoother if the orders come from me.”

Daenerys smiles in appreciation.

Gendry turns to face her. “I apologize, Your Grace, I’m not quite prepared to offer men. I’m not sure how many are under my command, though I did bring a fair amount with me into the city. I’ll write to the steward of Storm’s End to get an exact count and council on how many I’ll need to keep with me. I’ll have an answer for you in the coming days.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Lord Gendry. Speak with your maester to get an accurate count. The last thing I want is for Storm’s End is to become vulnerable due to a lack of soldiers.”

Across the table, Lord Edmure looks conflicted, no doubt feeling trapped in the circumstances. After a beat she can see that he’ll choose to remain silent, and she doesn’t linger on it. It’s only their first meeting.

Lord Arryn cranes his neck to look at his most loyal bannerman expectantly, waiting to hear what was best for the Vale before he acts. As much as she wishes he were older, more of a leader, the fact that he seeks council from those more experienced than him relieves her somewhat. The Vale wouldn’t be neglected so long as the boy had good people around him. She had to believe Lord Royce was one of those people, no matter his demeanor towards her.

Lord Royce nods to him, before glancing between her and Jon, choosing to speak to him. “With the battle against Ramsay Bolton and the battle against the dead, I don’t think we have men to spare…”

“Of course, my Lord, I understand.”

Understandably, Arya and Sam chose not to speak. She sometimes thinks it would be easier to name a compliant Lord as Warden of the North, but, truthfully, Northern loyalty was a mystery to her. They follow the brave, so long as the brave fights only for them. They honor their vows, so long as their leaders bend to their whims. If they stripped House Stark of power and gave it to someone they could trust implicitly, she wasn’t sure if the lords would revolt against them. But they could do the same under Sansa Stark. She briefly considers bestowing the title to Arya instead, she knew the girl loved her brother, and would follow him no matter her reservations, but she could also guess that Arya wasn’t the type to sit in a castle and lead. She wasn’t eager to add to the list of reasons the girl hated her. She was just as unsure about the Reach. House Tyrell had given it to her, but House Tyrell was gone. Part of her wanted to find some distant cousin of the Tyrells to name Warden of the South, anyone but the man whose father betrayed her ally, but Jon knows Sam, and trusts him. House Tarly was just as respected in the Reach, and almost as powerful.

Jon had told her earlier that he planned to speak to Sam alone and appeal to him using their bond as Brothers of the Night’s Watch. He was optimistic about Sam’s involvement in their future Kingdoms, though she wasn’t completely sure. All she could do was depend on Jon’s judgement.

“I’m sure the replenished food stores will last a while, but they won’t last forever. The rest of the Kingdoms need to eat, same as King’s Landing. Have you thought of the next step?” Tyrion asks after a lull in the discussion.

“Yes, I plan to ask for aid from Essos. Specifically, Meereen. I was hoping to establish a trade deal, but with winter spreading to the South, the country will essentially be preparing for a near halt on any production of resources. We won’t be producing enough to trade with the East. We can only hope the people of Meereen and the council they’ve established will be generous.”

“You were their Queen, I’m sure they’ll be eager to repay you for all you’ve done for them.” Tyrion replies, a hint of sadness in his words. Somehow, it eats at her more than his hate. He’s disappointed in her. She wasn’t sure when his admiration turned, when his faith soured, but it was getting harder not to care.

“I hope. I suppose we should write to Daario or send an emissary to gauge the political climate. I don’t want to ask for aide if they’ve yet to establish a stable leadership, they could give it at the expense of their own people, and I don’t want that.”

Tyrion nods in agreement, though his eyes are focused on the table. She has no doubt that he’s already drafting the letter in his mind, perhaps running through the list of people they could send to Essos.

 “As you’ve said, it’s getting colder,” Arya starts, her tone taking on its usual hardness. “Being indoors won’t do much good if they’re still dressed in rags.”

“I know that. It’s one of the reasons your sister’s presence was wanted. The North produces almost all of the country’s wool, we had requested that she provide as much as she could spare. I know the North is suffering from a lack of resources, but I can only guess from her silence that the North has effectively run out of it. At least, I hope that’s the reason,” Arya narrows her eyes at her response, though Daenerys manages to remain unaffected by it. It isn’t a veiled threat necessarily; she genuinely doesn’t know Sansa’s motives. But if her assumption is true, then the North has most likely run out of a lot more than wool, shutting out the rest of the Kingdoms will only quicken and prologue their inevitable suffering, economically and socially. Sansa Stark will have to venture South sooner rather than later, lest her people turn against her leadership. “As of now, we’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

“Much of the country’s grain comes from the Reach, Your Grace,” Yara says, “How do you plan to communicate with the region if the Tyrells are no longer here? Who has the Reach?”

At her words, Tyrion shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes shifting in rapid thought, causing worry and suspicion to cloud in her mind, which is quickly followed by annoyance. Her former Hand’s words had only led her to failure and she wasn’t eager to hear him speak again.

“Tyrion?” her voice is flat, unfriendly.

“I, uh,” he begins, his apologetic tone grating against her ears. “You see, I may have made some promises to a certain friend of mine.”

“Promises?”

He sighs, it prepares her for her upcoming disappointment. “My sister had sent this friend, a sellsword, North with the assignment of killing Jaime and me. In exchange for my life, and the life of my brother, I promised him a castle.”

Her annoyance quickly turns to anger, and she has to take a deep breath to keep it contained. “You promised a _sellsword_ the capital of the Reach?”

He nods in affirmation and all she can do is let out an exasperated chuckle.

“I can only assume this sellsword has _some_ experience in lordship? In economics? In politics? Because I’m struggling to come up with a logical reason as to why my _Hand_ promised one of my Kingdoms to a _sellsword_ without my knowledge or approval. So, tell me, Tyrion, will I be impressed with the man you seemed to have named my Warden of the South?”

His grimace at her words tell her ‘no’, though he’s quick to defend his actions. “Your Grace, I had a loaded crossbow pointed at me at the time. I had to say something to keep myself alive.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything,” she responds coldly. “I can’t say I would have grieved your death. Your council ceased to be beneficial long before we reached Winterfell. Even you knew that. What could ever make you think I would keep this promise you made to your _friend_.”

“I don’t know.” The self-pity in his words only annoys her.

“What’s going to happen, then? Should I prepare myself for an attack of a foolish man with a crossbow?” At the mentioned possibility, she can see Jon stiffen, his hand moving to grip the pommel of his sword.

“I don’t believe you have reason to worry, Your Grace,” he replies, his words tentative. “Bronn isn’t the most learned man in the Kingdoms, but he isn’t the stupidest. However, if you’re determined to keep me alive, I might need an extra guard or two. It was my life in exchange for the castle.”

“Well it appears you may be in luck, my Lord,” Jon says, his wry tone confusing her. “It just so happens you have a castle of your own to give to your friend. As we’ve discussed, you’ll be quite busy here in the capital. Perhaps your friend Bronn can take over the duties of Casterly Rock in your stead.”

“I don’t think he’ll want th—”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants. Our decisions won’t be based on the desires of a sellsword. You thought him worthy enough to entrust him with one of the largest Kingdoms that I can only assume that means you could also trust him with the duties of your own castle.”

“Is that wise?” Prince Quentyn asks. “You don’t want a sellsword to lead one Kingdom, so you give him another?”

“The Westerlands aren’t nearly as valuable as they once were.” Daenerys responds. “Their mines ran dry long ago, as Tyrion was so kind to inform me. He’ll report to Tyrion, who will report to us. He won’t be left to run loose in the region, and it will be made very clear that his position, as well as Tyrion’s, relies heavily on his success.”

Jon nods in agreement. “We won’t worry too much about it now, no sellsword has shown up demanding a castle on the word of the Queen’s advisor, perhaps he isn’t so daft after all,” he turns to Tyrion. “Either way you still need to find someone to send the Casterly Rock. Think on it.”

“Of course.” He replies with relief, thankful to be mercifully pulled out from under her own harsh words for him.

“You are correct, though,” she says to Yara, wanting to move on from her brief tongue lashing. “The Reach has no lord. Their armies are dispersed, some joined the Tarlys in their treason, some stayed loyal to the late Lady Olenna. Unfortunately, their numbers are unclear to us at the moment, the region has the potential to run wild if we don’t guide them under proper leadership soon. I believe Jon came up with a possible solution.” She looks across the vast table to him, her heart swelling with the simple action. She loves that he’s here, the way he’s here. That he’s chosen to climb up her lonely mountain to be with her, to help her climb down and be with the people instead of leaving her to freeze. She isn’t the only authority speaking now, she knows that her partner will keep them moving forward when she decides that she needs to step back and breath, and she’ll do the same for him.

“I have. Seeing as how House Tyrell was unjustly murdered by Cersei and her allies, the Reach lacks a Warden, as well as a Lord of Highgarden,” he looks down at Sam. “The Night’s Watch has no true purpose anymore, the Freefolk are no longer our enemies and the White Walkers are gone, it’s just a castle that we can send prisoners to. You’re free to continue your studies to become a Maester and return to Castle Black, or I can release you from your vows and you can accept my offer of Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.”

The look on Sam’s face is as comical as it is annoying. She trusts Jon, she does. But this man doesn’t seem like he could lead anything, led alone an entire Kingdom. His lip is quivering at Jon’s words, though they held no ire or disdain, just confident authority. She looks to Jon, raising an eyebrow in question. _This is the man you want to name Warden of the South?_ His silent response begs for her patience.

“I-I, I’m not…What about Horn Hill? Surely I would be better suited for my father’s own castle?”

“You have a sister, don’t you? And a mother?” She asks, unable to keep her mild annoyance out of her voice.

When he looks to her, his anxious fidgeting is replaced with a weak defiance. “I do.”

“Horn Hill can go them, you sister, your sister’s children.”

Sam narrows his eyes in suspicion, and she knows he’s searching her words for something more. A lie, a threat, anything that would validate his mistrust. In the back of her mind she begrudgingly admits that she’s earned it, she doesn’t expect anyone in the room to trust her so blindly right now, though she can’t forget that he mistrusted her before. He didn’t care that his father and brother betrayed her allies, he didn’t care that they were at war, she doubts that he even made an effort to understand. He still tried to separate her and Jon because of it, he judged her and deemed her unworthy of the crown because of it.

“You don’t have to make a decision now, Sam,” Jon cuts the small tension between them. “We can speak more on it later. It might be best if we dispatch a small portion of the Unsullied to the Reach first. When we have more information on the conditions of the region, we can plan better.”

Sam lets out an audible sigh of relief and she’s barely able to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

Jon looks to her, and she can see that his patience with the meeting is wearing thin. He doesn’t want to spend hours laying out what they _will do_ , he wants to do it now.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion’s voice tugs at her like a petulant child.

She sighs, letting her exasperation shine through in a what must look like a slightly dramatic display. “Yes?”

“It might be wise to begin forming your council. They can deal with the specifics, that way you and the King can go where you’re most needed.”

She looks away from him, not wanting to agree with him right away. Across the table, Jon looks as though he’s trying to hold back a smile. He’s failing. His amusement softens her, lightens her mood.

“I won’t have our choices questioned by those who would look for any reason to reject our rule. Anything larger decisions we make now can be called into question as neither of us have been official named Queen or King. We’ll wait until after we’re married and crowned.”

“A wise decision, Your Grace.” His simple response tells her that he’s finally picked up on her desire to speak directly to him as little as possible.

She nods in response, before looking down at the center of the table, running her mind through the list of anything else they should discuss in the introductory meeting. When she’s satisfied that they’ve laid the groundwork for the coming days as sufficiently as they could, she looks up to Jon, giving him a questioning look. _Is there anything else we need to discuss now, my King?_

She smiles inwardly to herself, enjoying the use of the title as a pet name for him. She’ll enjoy addressing him as such, in private as much as in the company of others.

He understands that she has nothing more that she needs to say, no more urgent pieces of business that she wants to discuss. He returns her look, giving her the signal to close the meeting. She quickly begins to address everyone individually around the table, informing them of where their men are most needed and what they can do. In Arya and Sam’s case, she simply tells them to go where they believe they’ll be most useful. In as much detail as she can, she explains where their resources will be going and what they’ll be used for. Given that they have at least a fortnight with the majority of the men provided, she and Jon want to make as much progress as they can.

He cuts in to ask those with men to spare to grant some to Tyrion, so that he may continue his task of repairing and improving the sewer system with the assistance of capable men. The small dig balances her irritation. She doesn’t want him out there, she doesn’t want him loose. Part of her believes it’s because she’s worried of what he could do, who he could speak to. Her Hand was always clever with words, it’s his greatest strength and now she was allowing him to speak his words to someone other than the man she trusts. The other part of her knows it’s because she doesn’t want to see the horror return to his face, the disgust.

With the tasks distributed, they dismiss the table. They all stand quickly, giving slight bows to her, accompanied with murmurs of _Your Grace._ She hears Sam’s voice among the others. Arya is the first to angle herself towards Jon, offering him the same farewell, quickly followed by Sam, the fervor in his address bringing her to the conclusion that she’ll need to speak with Jon about him. He could cause more trouble than he seems to be worth.

She hears Jon tells Tyrion to remain where he is, motioning for the guards that brought him to return to their posts for just a while longer.

Prince Quentyn offers her one last sweet smile before he takes his leave, confidently striding from the courtyard and disappearing down the corridor. From the corner of her eye she can see Jon whispering softly to Arya, though the brief smile he gives her when she leaves tells her it wasn’t confrontational. 

Before she steps away from the table, Yara touches her arm, gently asking for a moment of her time. They walk a short distance from the remaining group, and she eyes Yara curiously, wondering what she could possibly need to say that had to remain between them.

“Your Grace, I know there is much to be done in here, and I don’t want to pull your attention away from it, but I do hope you remember our initial agreement?”

_The Iron Islands._

In truth, she had forgotten. Yara had remained her on constant ally, while others fell victim to treason and Tyrion’s failed strategies. She allowed their alliance to morph into a something more akin to friendship, and so she’d let the politics of it all slip her mind. But she had no plans to deny one of her most ardent supporters her due.

“Of course, _Queen Yara,_ ” She smirks at the woman’s grimace at the title.

“Perhaps just Yara to you, Your Grace.”

“So long as _Your Grace_ is left at the door in our private conversations, as well. Daenerys, please. I have to hear my name from someone other than Jon every once and a while.”

Yara lets out a sly chuckle. “I can do that, Daenerys. Though I doubt it has the same effect on you as it does your betrothed. I must warn you, you’re not so discreet in your desire for him.”

She feels warmth flood her cheeks, but she has no shame in her looks being so blatantly pointed out. “There isn’t much to put to pen and paper, the Iron Islands will be granted independence and you shall be named their Queen. I do expect you to honor your part of the arrangement. No more reeving, roaming, raiding, or raping. I hope you’ll serve justice to those who would defy these terms.”

“I will.”

“Good,” she offers with a smile. “We’ll sit down privately, Jon as well I suppose, and work out a more permanent arrangement between us. So long as you’re a friend to the Throne, we’ll continue to have a successful alliance.”

Yara acknowledges the small threat with an amused smile, though Daenerys knows she’s taken it to heart. “I’ll see you down in the city, Your Grace.”

With a small bow, Yara follows Prince Quentyn’s path, her back straight and proud.

Daenerys brings her attention back to the table, only Jon and Tyrion remain.

She can see the little man is nervous. _When did you become so pitiful?_ He was once ruthless, cunning, willing to do anything so long as their goals were achieved. She could not bring herself to hate him for his sudden turn to pacifism, he cared for the people, an admirable quality in most, though as some point the term extended anyone and everyone, even her enemies, even those who committed crimes against her. She didn’t need a pacifist at her side, not during war. But she’d won the war and she was trying to see his value again.

“You’ll be watched, you’re not permitted to speak with those outside of the men granted to you, and you’re not permitted to go off on your own.” Jon’s voice is low and firm. _Yara said I wasn’t discreet; I wonder what I look like now._

Tyrion nods profusely.

“I won’t have you in chains while you’re out, but one misstep and that changes.”

“That’s reasonable, Your Grace, thank you.”

Before she can stop herself, the words tumble out of her mouth. “Is there anything we’ve said that you would advise against?”

She hates how the words make her feel. She might as well have asked for his approval, but she couldn’t help it. If he had a thought that had yet to occur to her or Jon, she wanted to know. Perhaps it would be better, perhaps it could make things easier. It’s why he was here anyway, to offer council. She comforted herself in the knowledge that she could always ignore it and let his words fall on deaf ears if she wished.

“No, Your Grace, the initial plans you’ve laid out are not likely to fail. Though I will suggest keeping an eye on Tully, he seemed rather disgruntled throughout the meeting. As I mentioned before, he and little Lord Robin may be susceptible to the words of Lady Stark, and you don’t want those words to be treasonous.”

She nods in agreement, though she personally believes Lord Edmure was disgruntled because it was the last place he wanted to be; under the eyes of the supposed bastard child his sister hated so and her, _the Dragon Queen._ She wouldn’t voice those beliefs though, at least not in Tyrion’s company.

“Samwell Tarly doesn’t seem particular dangerous, though he maybe be…resistant to changes in the coming days. I expect he’ll be most likely to voice his opposition, especially to you, Your Grace.” He says, turning to Jon.

“I know, I plan to have a word with Sam later today, perhaps before supper. I’d rather speak to him alone than in the company of others, he’s far more composed when his audience is smaller.”

“He better grow out of that if he’s going to be Lord Paramount of the Reach. I have no doubt the man is smart, but a lack of confidence can be just as detrimental to a Lord of high standing.”

“I know, Tyrion. I’ll vouch for Sam as long as I can but if he proves unsuitable for the position, I’m happy to look elsewhere,” he turns away from Tyrion, waving the guards forward again. “They’ll take you back to your rooms to grab what you need. Get a good look at the city in the coming days, make whatever adjustments you need to your plans, and inform us of the resources you’ll need. For now, you’ll have just a few Unsullied with you. I’ll gather a team of men when construction is ready to begin.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, I hope I don’t disappoint you. Either of you.”

Jon stiffly nods in acknowledgment, his brow furrowed. He has more to say.

“I love her,” he starts. It’s an unexpected declaration and her curiosity peaks. “Should I hide it? In front of the others, I mean.”

_Will our love be used against us?_

“We both know you’re a terrible liar,” Tyrion starts, a small attempt at humor that’s ignored. “Normally, I would suggest that you remain…distant in the public eye, but even today it was difficult to ignore the longing gazes that were passed between the pair of you. So no, you shouldn’t hide it because you won’t be able to. More than that, they aren’t stupid. If anyone else had done what she did, they would have been put the death immediately,” Jon flinches at his words but doesn’t disagree. She doesn’t either, his love for her kept her alive, drove him to help her rather than abandon her. “Even if they don’t suspect love, they’ll know you care for her in a romantic sense. No point in pretending that you don’t, it would only serve to make you look foolish. Your judgment would be doubted if people can’t seem to understand why you don’t kill her, why you’re at her side instead. At least they can…sympathize with emotional an attachment.”

“That won’t make me look just as foolish?”

“Maybe it will, but you’re an honest man, Your Grace, and there aren’t many ways to paint your choices. You may as well stay on the side of truth as much as you can.”  

Jon considers his words, clearly unhappy with the advice. It wasn’t particularly helpful, but she is grateful he didn’t suggest a colder demeanor between them. Even if it was just for show, it would hurt her, bring back the memories of her time in the North. She never wanted to feel that way again.

When they sense the conversation is over, the guards crowd around Tyrion, their stoic impatience for their prisoner causing him to ungraciously pull himself from the chair, offer a clumsy bow to the pair of them, and begin to follow the path of those who left before.

It’s just the two of them now, save for the guards posted near the outer columns of the area.

Jon stares at her, a proud smile on his lips, before he walks around the table, quickly closing the distance between them.

Within seconds she’s surrounded by him, his arms quickly circling her waist and pulling her flush against him, his forehead coming down to softly touch her.

“That went far better than I could have hoped,” he says quietly, his voice finally free of stress.

She wholeheartedly agrees, her shoulders are free of the tightness of anticipation they held before, her muscles are relaxed and unstrained, her mind finally slowing to a pace that didn’t drain her completely.

“You were quite the sight,” she says, smiling at the endearing way he ducks his head. She brings her hand up to cup his cheek, softly scraping the bristles of his beard, willing him to look up at her again. “Thank you,” she begins, her voice taking on a serious, impassioned tone. “I know I could have done it alone, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

“I’ll be by your side so long as you’ll have me,” he whispers back, kissing her lips softly. “And even then, I’m not sure you’d be able to push me away.”

Her heart melts at his words, a warmth filling her until the chill of loneliness is just a memory. She runs her fingers through the curls at his neck. “We should go, before I drag you back to our rooms.”

“We should, because I don’t think I’d object.”

\--------------

His mood sours soon after they part ways at the base of the steps. He felt foolish, naïve for taking the actions of these men at face value, for believing their words too quickly. _Of course, it had gone too well._

Lord Royce was the first to approach him, without Robin Arryn.

He should have known by the man’s nervous approach, the way he looked around for curious eyes before he stepped closer than necessary to Jon, that the words he was about to say would make him seethe with anger. But he didn’t, he only believed the man was curious about the city, about the welfare of his men.  

 “Where’s Lord Arryn, my Lord?”

“I thought it best for him to return to his rooms, Your Grace. I hope you don’t mind. His health has improved tenfold but I’m afraid he’s still prone to sickness. I don’t want him exposed to infection or the chill.”

Jon nods in understanding, the last thing they need is for the Lord of the Vale to die without an heir.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss? I can assure you your men won’t be overworked; I’d be more than happy to show you the schedule Grey Worm organized to ensure that every man gets proper rest.” He knew the Vale’s forced were severely depleted, mainly because of him and the battles he pleaded them to aide in, so he had no problem speaking with him about the details to keep him happy. He was sure Lord Royce would spend the next several weeks watching how his men were cared for with an almost unbearably close eye.

“I believe you, Your Grace,” he said, surprisingly waving off Jon’s earnest concern. “I’ve seen you lead armies; I know you’re a capable commander. You’re not the type to neglect the men under your order.”

The compliment makes him wary, sets him on edge.

He clears his throat before accepting it. “Thank you, my Lord. What is it you wanted to speak on, then? If you’re curious about the construction in the city, I can arrange for you to be escorted around.”

“No, no, no, Your Grace. I just thought I would remind you of our allegiance to House Stark,” he tenses, wondering if the man would really be so stupid as to openly declare Daenerys his enemy in front of him. “While your father was a Targaryen, your mother was of the North through and through. The Vale will remain loyalty to you, and support your claim as _Jon Snow_ , King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He finally narrows his eyes at the man, deeming his words enough to let his anger show. “Aye, you will. Just as you’ll support my wife, Daenerys _Targaryen_.”

Lord Royce hesitates to answer, and he lets out a frustrated sigh before he tries again. “Fire and blood,” he starts, lifting his arms to gesture to the space around them. “are not convictions the Vale is eager to support, if I may be so bold to say.”

Jon silently cursed the man for the bind he trapped him in. He couldn’t say _you will_ because it wasn’t fair. _He_ couldn’t even support what the man gestured to. _It doesn’t matter to him, she already did it. She brought fire and blood to King’s Landing._

“Did Lord Arryn voice these opinions to you? I don’t think you have the authority to speak for the entirety of the Vale.”

“Well, n-no, Your Grace, bu—"

“I understand your concerns, Lord Royce, though I will ask you not to be so quick as to dismiss my Queen’s claim. She and I will rule the Seven Kingdoms together. We want peace above all else. Fire and blood are only words, words that I can assure you will never be taken to action against our people as they have been,” Lord Royce opens his mouth to protest, but Jon doesn’t give him the chance to. “There is nothing you can do or say, my Lord. She and I will be married and if you're truly support me as your King, you’ll have to accept her as your Queen. I’m not asking you to declare your unwavering loyalty to her, to toast to her health and wellbeing, but I would ask you to allow her the chance to prove herself a worthy Queen.”

His words are harsh, probably not the best tactic when asking for compromise, but he can’t help it. He hates that he has to defend her, that the others don’t see what he sees. He hates even more that he understands their views completely. _She killed burned down a city, she killed countless innocents._ He has to keep reminding himself of how the others view her, that their opinions are based on the actions she’d taken, and that they’re not unjust in their anger or hatred. No one would ever know her like he does, as deeply as he does. He knows her heart, the gentleness she has. But she would never be so vulnerable around people who dislike her, who could use it against her.

“The _Lord of the Vale_ may ask for a private conversation if he shares your concerns. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Royce,” he says, abruptly ending the conversation. He turns away from him and walks in the opposite direction, not particularly sure of his destination. Lord Royce was the most docile of the other Lords in that meeting, his cooperation fully convincing Jon of his loyalty. _I’m a fool. How can I be a King?_

Slowing his pace, he takes the opportunity to take account of the work going on around him, some are pulling carts of supplies back to the main courtyards, others are distributing lumber brought from the Stormlands to the larger building sights, while most standing in the levelled foundations of the destroyed building, working together to plan how best to lay the frames of the new ones. .

In his irritation, he curses Sansa. While he’s grateful many of the Kingdoms’ main exports consist of wheat and grain, the North produces much of the lumber and stone. They have the resources to ensure starvation doesn’t take over the city for a fair amount of time, but what good was that if they couldn’t rebuild the markets and startup business in the city again?

He makes a note to gather a host of men after they’ve wed. A summons from a King is sure to get her attention.

“He isn’t the only one, you know.”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t bother to look at her, instead splitting his attention to help some men lift the edge of a cart that’s about to lose a wheel.  Arya stands behind him while waits for the simple repair to finish, but she continues her observation in vague terms, mindful of the ears around them.

“Others will approach you as he did, you should be prepared for it.”

“How do I do that?”

“Practice what you’ll say and keep a cool head. I doubt they’ll be completely wrong or unfair in what they think.”

He helps the others lower the cart, taking a pat on the back in thanks from an unfamiliar man dressed in Dothraki furs.

He guides her to a quieter area, sheltered in an alley between two construction sites. There is still a fair amount of people around them, but they were all too occupied to be able to listen in on their words.

“Did I not keep a cool head?” He thought did a fair job at restraining himself, though any bolder words than the ones Lord Royce uttered had the potential to make him grab collars and make blatant threats. She was right, he had to be prepared.

“You did, at least to him. But I saw you, your hand twitched towards your sword more than once,” she said with an air of arrogance meant to amuse him. It does, and he smiles softly at her. “These days, you only get agitated when people speak against _her_. I’m guessing it wasn’t any different?”

He signs loudly. “No, you’re right. It was about her.”

To his surprise, she doesn’t add to the barrage of negative comments said about Daenerys. Instead, sympathy shines through her eyes.

“Nobody will have anything kind to say about her. At least, not for a long while. You might have to deal with this even long after you’ve been wed. Perhaps even still after she gives you children,” his heart beats a little faster, worried Arya may have figured out their secret. She could have seen anything, from one of his quick glances at her stomach, to Dany’s hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long. If he knew anything about his sister, it’s that she wasn’t stupid, she would be able to deduce what those actions meant. “You have to be prepared for that, Jon. What she did isn’t something people will forget. Or forgive.”

He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when it’s clear that she doesn’t know yet. She was simply trying to prepare him for what his future most likely entailed; defending the woman he loved beyond reason against hatred and prejudices that now had a firm base to grow strong on. _Everything horrible thing they say about her will hold some truth._

“I know,” he says, speaking softer to her than he had in a while.   _After our hug in the Godswood everything changed._ “And you? How long will you speak ill of her?”

“Don’t do that, Jon. My feelings are my own, you can’t guilt me into liking her. Whatever I think of her, I’ll keep to myself, for your sake. Plenty of others will say it anyway.”

He forces himself to understand, though it feels like he’s betraying her, his Dany. _Dany is mine, but Daenerys belongs to the world. They’ll never see her as Dany._

“She loves you. It’s hard to ignore. Believe me, I tried. I don’t want to know what she feels, that she feels at all.” Arya says, matching his unguarded gentleness, though her words cut at him. “I should apologize to you, I was under the impression that you followed her in every command she gave, but you held your own in that meeting, _Aegon_.”

He throws her a look of warning that she waves off. “I’ll admit I was surprised at how aware she was about what people think of her.”

“She can’t ignore it; she sees it every day. And as much as I’d like to, I can’t protect her from it.”

“You shouldn’t, Jon. Don’t feed her lies.”

“She’s told me the same, more or less.”

Arya’s gaze moves down, and she eyes his new clothes. “She’s dressed you in her colors.” she says sadly.

“They’re my colors too,” he says in defense, though he is sympathetic. He was her brother, always. He didn’t want her to think he felt any different. “Besides, I was a man of the Night’s Watch, I’m well accustomed to black.”

“How long before I see you in a gaudy red sash?”

He smirks playfully at her subtle dig at Daenerys. “Red isn’t necessarily my color. I don’t think I would look as regal as she does.” His voice takes on a wistful note, images of her flashing through his mind. She had a red cape on Dragonstone. Paired with her charcoaled gowns, she looked steely and sensual. Her white and red coat had been a particular favorite of his, the satin sash tied around her neck proved to be quite entertaining on the road to Winterfell. He knew she had worn it to tease him as much as she had to keep herself shielded from the cold.

“ _Please_ , stop,” Arya replies, rolling her eyes with much exaggeration. She pushes herself up from her casual stance against the wall. “I’ll leave you to your duties, Your Grace.”

Before he can respond, she turns away, ending their conversation.

He feels better knowing it didn’t end as hostile as they usually do. He feels hopeful, whether she wanted to admit it or not, Jon could tell she was surprised by her, by them. A small part of him prays that the meeting sliced at least a small part of the image she held of Daenerys, fractured it even slightly, just along the edges. The gods seemed to be answering his desperate prayers now, he could only hope that they continued with their sudden favoritism.

\--------------

Lord Edmure bombarded him a few hours later, hastily asking, _demanding_ , for a word in private.

Jon knew as soon as the man stomped towards him with an angry determination that he would allude to the same notions as Lord Royce did. He just didn’t know how much stronger his opposition would be, how much bolder the man was.

“She’s the source of all this horror,” he starts in a low voice as soon as Jon guides him to a fairly empty street. “How can you expect me to see her as good for the Riverlands if she did _this_ to her own city?”

“Because she won’t do it again, my Lord. You have my word.” His voice is just as low, restrained. Prepared.

“You’re a capable leader, I’ll give you that, but I don’t have confidence in your control over her. You’ve clearly not been…successful.”

He grits his teeth, digs his nails into his palms, anything to hold back from physically subjecting the man from his anger.

“I don’t control her. The choices she makes are her own.”

 “I would hope so. Regardless of who your sire may be, I don’t think Ned Stark would raise a child to be as cold and ruthless as your Queen seems to be.”

“Did she seem cold and ruthless this morning?”

“Does it matter? What she did is all I need to know I’m right. For the safety of _my_ people, I need to know that you can keep her tamed.”

“As I’ve said, I don’t control her. I won’t lie to you and pretend that I do.”

Lord Edmure huffs in frustration. He calms himself before speaking again. “How do you expect anyone to swear fealty to her? The Lords of Westeros have been called sheep, it’s true, but no King has ever committed such heinous acts. And she’s not even Queen yet. I dread to think of what she’ll do next.”

“Lord Edmure, I can’t excuse what she did. But I can promise she won’t do it again,” he wasn’t lying, he believed that with his entire being. She would never be that alone again, that heartbroken, that betrayed. “She’s working to make amends. If she was truly so cruel, she wouldn’t care about rebuilding the city, she wouldn’t care about feeding the people, or keeping them housed.”

“She wouldn’t burn them to death, either.”

It’s a fair point from Lord Edmure’s perspective; he isn’t the one watching her struggle with what she’s done, holding her close in the early hours of the morning while she’s tormented by nightmares.

“My Lord, you don’t know me well, but I’m asking you to trust me. It’s all I can ask of you, because she _is_ going to be Queen,” he’s met with a silent, unhappy glare. “We all want to the same thing, peace in the Realm. Should you decide to take action against her, it will only result in your death.”

Lord Edmure doesn’t absorb the words the way he wished, understanding settles over his face before he gives Jon a bitter smirk. “You may not have been his brother, but you’re very much like Robb. My foolish nephew was seduced by a pretty face and a warm bed, and he was killed for it.”

“Is that a threat, my Lord?” He feels a sharp sting on his palms, he’s sure he’s drawing blood.

Lord Edmure steps back, shaking his head, the smirk still in place, though less broad. “No, Your Grace, just something to think about.”

Jon lets him walk away. He’s too tightly wound up, stretched so far, he was sure to snap at the slightest pull.

He quickly walks back to the courtyard, scanning the crowd for the Master of War. He feels unsettled with what he wants to do, but he needs eyes kept on Lord Edmure and Lord Royce. Her safety came above everything else; he wouldn’t do this without her. She promised him, and he promised her.

When he finds him, speaking with Rakho and gesturing towards a stacked pile of lumber, he walks up slowly, not wanting to put him on edge. He lightly taps on Grey Worm’s and hopes that his expression is enough to draw the man’s attention away from dedication to the work.

Seeing his grim look, Grey Worm gives him a stiff nod of acknowledgment, and ends his conversation with Rahko, who immediately begins barking orders in Dothraki to the men standing idly next to the large stack.

“Is the Queen in danger?” The forceful question leaves his lips as soon as they have a little distance between them and everyone else.

“No, she isn’t, but we have to make sure that doesn’t change. Would you be able to spare some men? I want eyes and ears on Lord Royce and Lord Tully. I’m not sure about the others yet but I want those two watched closely.”

“Unsullied are soldiers, not spies. They will know they’re being watched.” By his tone, Jon can tell he’s going to see it done anyway.

“I don’t need spies, just men to ensure that our guests are safe. They may be offended by it, but it’s not as if they can easily accuse me of spying.” The deceptive actions, while still tinging his mouth with a slight bitterness, are getting easier to take. He wouldn’t take any chances when her and their child’s lives hung in the balance.

_Perhaps we should tell Grey Worm soon._

He wants to now, though he knows how precious the knowledge is to her. She might want to tell her commander herself; they did have a unique friendship.

“I’ll see it done.”

“Thank you.”

\---------------

He was on edge for the rest of the day, waiting for Gendry or Sam to approach him with an irritating look of disappointment. His back ached from his tense stance; his fingers sore from clenching his fist for much of the day.

Gendry passed him a few times, only offering him a weak smile of acknowledgment before he continued on with his work. Being a Lord, he was not asked to assist in the physical labor himself, though years of a lower status had him falling back into his familiar disposition. He quickly found his place in the forge and Jon saw to it that he was given some command in the projects, not because of his new standing, but because he had proven himself to be skilled blacksmith.

Jon didn’t think much of it, Gendry was new to his position, and Jon could tell how out of place he felt at their meeting. Nonetheless, Jon would approach him in the coming days, and make it known that his words would be heard and valued should he have something to say.

The sun was setting, the chill of the evening creeping in over city, and some began to step away from their daily tasks to begin lighting the fires. Men from the Vale, the Riverlands, and Dorne were making their way to the gates of the city towards their camps, opting not to crowd the city with more bodies and tents that would only obstruct a timely rebuild.

Jon knew that after the fires were lit, and the people as warmed as they could be, the Unsullied and Dothraki would continue their duties throughout the night. The men who worked during the day would switch out with the ones who rested, a cycle Grey Worm was meticulously following to ensure the safety of the people and the health of the soldiers.

Jon was grateful for it, Grey Worm had so far managed to keep hostilities low, he patiently took the verbal abuse of some who spoke harshly of the Queen's ‘foreigners’ and never retaliated. Under his command, Rahko was equally as successful at keeping the Dothraki tempered, no fights had broken out between them and the people of the city, though Jon knew of a few incidents where tensions almost peaked. Both men were aware of their Queen’s most serious command; rape or murder was not to be tolerated under any circumstances. It was one of the things she was most anxious about, that under the circumstances, men and women would be violated in the most terrible of ways, innocent lives would be brutally taken, if she looked away for a moment. She would blame herself for it just as much as she would the rapist or the murderer.

Much to his relief, the people seem to have accepted the constant watchful eye of her soldiers, and he could even see that some were grateful for it. Sleeping out in the open, or next to twenty strangers was an uncomfortable notion, but the faces of the people he passed were no longer as wary, their eyes no longer darting around constantly waiting for their weaknesses to be exploited.

People nodded to him as he passed, understanding that he held a high position, though none were privy to what that position was. He was conflicted on how to feel about the upcoming announcement. He hopes that being named King, especially after the diligent work he had put into the city, would work in her favor, though he felt wrong for thinking it. She didn’t need him to rule, but she couldn’t win over the people on her own. He worries that once his new position is known, people would begin to undermine her, disrespect her and be open and blatant in their preference for him. It was already happening with the few people who knew, but it would break her heart if she saw the people embrace him and shun her. Once it was known, once they were married and crowned, he would spend more days at her side, wanting everyone to see that they were united, wanting everyone to see that they wouldn’t get one monarch without the other. They would walk the city together, offer help together, speak with the common people together. He prays that their union would improve the public opinion of her, even just slightly. He couldn’t take it anymore, watching the woman he loves despised by the everyone around them, it ate away at his heart every time he thought of it, and split it in half when she would tell him about it in the sheltered comfort of their bed.

He was getting anxious to see her, desperately needing to know if either man had the courage to approach her with their complaints, if anyone had made a less than veiled threat towards her. Even the idea had him seeing red and he picked up his pace, eyes widening when he saw Davos near to food lines without her anywhere near him.

“Where is she?” he asks as soon as Davos spots him, forgoing any pleasantries.

Davos offers him a gentle smile, immediately cooling his building worry. “She returned to the keep half an hour ago, lad. Yara Greyjoy is with her. If I were you, Your Grace, I would do everything in my power to keep that woman here, she’s as loyal to the Queen as you are.”

“She was with her all day?”

“Aye,” Davos nods. “She interesting company, I must say. And she did express interest in carrying out the Queens orders should we need to import resources from Essos. The Greyjoy fleet is not as vast as it once was, but they still have more ships than any other house in Westeros.”

“I’ll discuss it with her,” Jon said, thinking to ask Daenerys if Yara Greyjoy could possibly be named their Master of Ships. “Davos, did anyone else approach her? Royce? Tully? Martell?”

“The Prince was with us for a time, though he took a special interest in the orphanage. He stayed there after to Queen moved on to other duties.”

Jon nodded. The jealousy he felt towards the Prince was slowly fading. He admired Daenerys, and not even a blind man could deny her beauty, Jon simply had to learn to tolerate all the extreme reactions she was met with, be it lust or hatred. Besides, the man was kinder to her than most. She needed people like him around her, people who could see her goodness despite the terrible thing she’d done.

“No one else?”

Davos narrow his eyes at his serious tone. “No, Your Grace. Are you worried about something?”

“Not yet. But please, tell me if you see something, hear something. I can’t have her in danger.”

“If I see anything suspicious, I’ll come straight to you, I swear it.”

Jon affectionately slaps him arm. “Thank you, Davos. You should settle in for the night soon. I can’t have you getting sick, you’re too important. As I’ve said, we have rooms to spare in the keep, you’re always welcome to one.”

“I may take you up on that offer soon, lad. But not tonight, I like to read to the children, you see. Helps me practice and it helps them learn.”

Jon smiles at him, another position of their small council wading in his mind. He’d talk to Daenerys about that as well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Davos.”

He bids farewell with a smile and continues up the steps, nodding to the Unsullied guarding the entrance to the keep. He walks past the ruined entrance to the Throne Room, a chill spreading from his heart to every muscle in his body. It was the room where he almost lost everything. Glancing at the pitch-black entrance, he hastens his walk, hating the cruel power he feels exuding from it. It feels evil, dark, and hungry. What happened in that room feels a lifetime away and going near it only reminds him of how he failed her.

As soon as it’s out of his eyeline, he feels lighter, and keeps his quickened pace to see her sooner. His Queen, his love, the mother of his child. _My wife._

\---------------

“To be fair, the man wasn’t going to pay her, I felt _obligated_ to do it.”

Daenerys laughs at her words, taking a sip of the warm, honeyed milk. She feels lighter than she has in weeks. It was only ever her and Jon, and the only true happiness she felt nowadays was in the fire-lit glow of their bedchambers. It was the only place she felt loved, or even just _liked_. It feels nice to expand that kind of happiness, even if it was only to the stone table in the courtyard.

The braziers were well-lit, the bright fires staving off the chill from their huddled corner of the long table. Before them was a simple meal of beef stew and fresh baked bread, though every spoonful warmed her down to her toes.

She had planned on waiting for Jon, though ten minutes into waiting, the food had arrived, and the intoxicating smell cleared her mind of patience.

The invitation to the modest meal stood for every guest they had, but Merri had informed her that the others had chosen to take their meals in their chambers. She tried not to be hurt by It and told herself they were simply still weary from their travels and their day in the city. After all, an invitation to dine from a Queen wasn’t something that was easily turned down. No, they were simply tired. _They don’t see me as Queen. They don’t accept me as their Queen._ She shakes her head and tries to focus on Yara and Prince Quentyn’s conversation, not wanting the self-doubt to ruin the progress she’s made. Besides, it mattered not, the two people with her now genuinely enjoyed her company and she enjoyed theirs. She didn’t realize how starved she was for the simplicity of interactions like this, the absence of weighted and all-consuming emotions was a nice shift in her ever-active mind.  _It’s not just the superficial conversations, I crave the people, the friendships._ One day she had all of it and the following dawn had violently ripped it from her, ripped _them_ from her. The lump starts building in her throat again, and she focuses her gaze on the flames closest to her, not wanting her companions to see the soft sheen of tears in her eyes.

Yara gently clears her throat to get her attention and when she glances up, she sees Jon walking towards them. As always, her heart begins to flutter, her body begging her to go to him and be as close as possible. She barely manages to resist the urge, gripping the arm of her chair in an effort to keep her composure.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says with a bit of embarrassment. “We were waiting but it got here, and it’s smelt absolutely wonderful, and I was starv—”

“It’s alright,” he laughs gently at her rushed apology, coming to stand by her chair. “You should eat, my Queen. Don’t go hungry on my account.”

His words hold the slightest note of seriousness that she catches on. _You and our babe need to stay healthy._

“Well, please, sit. We’ve only just started,” Prince Quentyn says, rising to move a chair over so Jon could sit at her side. “Yara here was just telling us about the man she almost killed in a brothel.”

“No, no, please, stay put,” he replies, holding his hands up to still the Prince’s moves. “I was actually going to visit with Samwell Tarly. I haven’t had the opportunity to properly welcome him.”

“Will you take your super with him?” She asks, worried that the conversation had the potential to ruin Jon’s evening.

“No, I don’t plan to be more than half an hour, if I’m honest. I’m rather tired. Would you mind having a small meal taken to our chambers?”

She darts her eyes nervously around them at his slip up before she remembers that she’s with friends. Friends who were just sharing stories about their misadventures in brothels. Her sharing a bed with Jon wasn’t scandalizing news to them.

Yara sees her worried shift and nearly rolls her eyes. “I don’t take you for a prude, especially around a man like _that_.”

Jon becomes slightly flustered at the compliment and her companions share a chuckle at his expense.

“Yes, love,” she saves him, feeling comfortable enough to use the endearment. “I’ll have a meal brought to our rooms, along with a horn of ale.”

He gives her a sweet smile. “Thank you,” he says, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, clearly as at ease with the two as she was. “I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he turns and walks down the corridor at the other end of the courtyard, the one that led to the majority of their guest rooms, determination in his step.

“I must say, Your Grace, that man loves you very much,” Prince Quentyn observes, causing her cheeks to warm slightly. “I suppose it is not a lie to say I never had a chance at winning your hand?”

“I’m afraid not, my Prince,” she laughs. “Though I can assure you I’m not marrying Jon just because of some girlish notions of love. I believe he will be a great King for Westeros. I’ve only met a handful of men as honorable and as good as he is. However, I won’t deny that I care for him deeply.”

“You don’t need to deny it,” Yara chimes in. “After watching Cersei and Robert Baratheon for nearly twenty years, the people will probably be relieved that the King and Queen care for one another. I doubt your marriage will be as ridiculed and riddled with rumors as theirs was. It will be quite nice to know that the King isn’t fathering bastards with every other whore in the city and even nicer to know that the children _you_ have will, in fact, be his.”

She gives Yara an amused smile, though she can’t agree completely. She doesn’t think the people will be relieved. She thinks that if they see her happiness and her love, they’ll resent her even more than they already do. When her belly becomes visible to the world, no one will toast to her health, or celebrate the upcoming heir. They’ll judge her child before they even come into the world. If they _really_ notice the way she looks at Jon, the way he looks at her, they’ll begin to echo the same sentiment that’s been playing in her mind more frequently: _I don’t deserve this._

“So, tell me, Your Grace,” Prince Quentyn starts, picking up on her melancholy. “Is your King the prudish one?”

The awkward silence dissipates as they all break out in a laugh.

“Well?” Yara asks, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “It’s difficult to know with the quiet ones.”

“Jon is…rather private in his affections. But you mustn’t forget, my betrothed is a dragon _and_ a wolf.” She lets them gather the meaning of her words, and takes another sip from her goblet as they share a chuckle at her implication, a different warmth filling her belly. She’s suddenly impatient for him to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at politics, so if you find any flaws, lets just agree to ignore them :) I am wondering how Daenerys is able to fund everything, it isn't ever addressed as a concern in the show, so if you have an idea, please let me know. I'd like my story to be even a little more logical than season 8. 
> 
> Remember, part one. Chapter 10.5. This part prioritized the interactions with other characters, but second part will have much more of the internal dialogue of Dany and Jon, which I really enjoy writing. Anyway, comments and criticisms are welcome. Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I made good on my promise! Less than two weeks! 
> 
> I want to take a sec to say thanks to everyone's kind words about the things going on in my real life. I appreciate all of it. And I super-appreciate that everyone was understanding about the nonexistent posting schedule, though I honestly didn't expect any less. I've had nothing but a positive experience with the comment section of this fic, I know some aren't so friendly. So huge thank you for that. 
> 
> Anyway we're back part two of the previous chapter. See you at the bottom. :)
> 
> P.S. There are probably plenty of typos, I'll be fixing them throughout the week but the chapter is done and I wanted it posted.

“Jon!” Sam greets him with surprise, before he settles in a nervous silence.

“May I come in?” Jon asks, careful not to let his annoyance from the meeting seep into his words. He still hopes to be able to call Sam a friend, though that coin still had yet to land on a definitive side.

“Of course, Jo—Your Grace,” he replies, flustered.

“Sam, I’ll have none of this _Your Grace_ nonsense when we’re alone,” he says with a chuckle, hoping to ease Sam’s worry. He felt more comfortable with his friend, Jon, that he did the King. Or perhaps he just feels more at ease without Daenerys here. Either way, Jon needed to gauge Sam’s willingness to be in agreement with the crown. If he needed to search a new Lord of Highgarden, he wanted to start sooner rather than later.

The rooms given to Sam weren’t the most lavish, though they’re sufficient enough for a short stay. If he’s being honest, Sam received the plainest room of them all because he didn’t necessarily hold any lands or titles. And Jon knew he wouldn’t care. The small bedchambers held a modest-sized bed, a small writing desk, and a couple of chairs sat in front of a decently built fireplace, which currently had a fire burning, along with its own private dressing room attached. It was small without being stuffy, and large enough for a man who didn’t travel with many personal possessions.

“Well…please sit, I’ve just finished my super.” Sam says, gesturing to one of the chairs. Jon takes it, patiently waiting for Sam to lose the tension he seems to be holding on to.

He takes a moment to look around the room a little more, taking note of the two books sitting on the desk, a feather poking out of one. _Sam’s evidence. The words that I almost let tear us apart._

He takes a deep breath, willing away the small tinge of anger he feels towards his friend. _You gave your crown to save your people, would she do the same?_ He had been too overwhelmed with the revelation to argue against the absurdity of Sam’s words, too weak to realize what he was trying to do. _Not again._

“Gilly? Little Sam?” he asks, trying to distract himself. “Are they well?”

“They are,” he replies, taking the chair across from him. “I left them in Oldtown, I saw no reason to bring them along, especially after the long journey from Winterfell.”

“That was wise, they don’t need to see this.” As true as the statement was, Jon also hopes Sam will see that Jon _does_ understand the severity of her actions. He doesn’t need _another_ person telling him that love is making him act foolish.

“No, they don’t,” Sam agrees. “ _I_ could hardly make through the city. It’s horrible, Jon.”

“I know, Sam,” he’s waits to see if Sam will be brave enough to approach the topic himself, but after a few moments of silence, he continues, trying to help him along. “I can arrange for them to be escorted to Highgarden, if you accept the position, of course.”

“They would be allowed to go with me?” The surprised look on Sam’s face saddens him. _Did he think I would try to separate him from his family? No…not me. He’ll assume the worst with Daenerys, always._

“Why wouldn’t they be? Of course, you’ll need to marry Gilly, and we can legitimize little Sam easily enough.”

“Little Sam isn’t my son, Jon,” he mumbles sadly, as if Jon didn’t know.

“Isn’t he? Or will you tell him who his true father was when he’s old enough? What he did to his mother?” The question come out harsher than he intended, but doesn’t like that Sam is anticipating the worst, that he won’t _try_. “As far I’m concerned, he is your son, I see no reason to let others dictate who your family is.”

Sam smiles. “Thank you.”

“So, you’ll accept the position?”

“I…,” he sighs. “I still need to think on it, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll need an answer soon.”

Silence blankets the room again, and Jon is content to stare into the fire and wait for Sam to muster up the courage to say whatever it is he wants to say.

“So, you’re going to be King,” Sam says, and air of pride in his voice.

“I am.”

“How did she find out?”

“I told her,” he replies. “She took it better than I did.”

“Did she?” Again, the surprise is there. “When did you tell her?”

“Before the battle,” Jon starts, nearly rolling his eyes at the terrible timing of it. “I couldn’t…I avoided her after you told me. I needed to think… I couldn’t be around her; it was too confusing. It hurt too much.”

“It _hurt_?”

 “You know what it’s like to want a woman that you shouldn’t have. Aye, it was Craster’s warning that made you keep your distance, but you know.”

“I didn’t realize you…cared for her like that.”

“You would have if you’d asked. I would have told you that I was the happiest I’d ever been, even with death looming over us. I would have told you how much I admired her…how much I loved her.”

“So why did you stay away? Were you worried about what she would do when she realized you had the better claim?”

He feels the anger again, his hand twitches in frustration at how quickly her years are trials and hardships are discounted because of him, how irrelevant her accomplishments become to others simply because she wasn’t born a man.

“I was never worried for my life, Sam,” his voice is strained, dancing on the edge of casualty and annoyance. “In fact, she saved my life twice more during the battle, after she knew. Daenerys was never going to have me killed, I _know_ that. I stayed away because she’s my aunt by blood, I thought it would bother me. I was _waiting_ for it to bother me, but I just missed her.

“So, it doesn’t bother you?”

“I think that’s obvious.”

“Does… _anything_ about her bother you?”

“Sam, you’re not good at trying to pull information from me, ask me what you want or don’t ask at all,” he snaps back. He would give Sam the blunt answers he wanted if he himself had the courtesy to ask the blunt questions.

“She’s the Mad King come again. Does that bother you?” The edge in his voice tells Jon that Sam’s anger is being fueled by more than just the destruction of the city. Jon has no doubt he’s still angry about his father and brother.

He takes a deep breath, preparing his answer, reciting it in his head to ensure that it doesn’t sound as emotionally driven as Sam’s question. “What she did was horrible, a war crime. To most, death is the only suitable punishment—”

“Instead you’re offering her a crown—”

“I’m not offering anything. The crown is hers. Ours,” he looks at Sam and lets his hard mask slip, willing Sam to see how serious he is, how sure he is. “She isn’t mad. I know her better than anyone else. I _know_ she isn’t mad.”

“No one in their right mind would do what she did.”

“I _know_ , Sam, I…” he sighs loudly, knowing how he’s starting to sound; like a fool in love with a pretty face. He leans forwards, elbows on his knees, and rubs his face in frustration. He’s not frustrated with Sam, he’s not frustrated with himself, he’s not even frustrated with her. He’s frustrated at the circumstances. It would be so easy to place the blame solely on her, to label her mad and love her anyway, it would certainly make his actions seem clearer to those around him. No matter how foolish it would make him look, it would make sense to them. But he couldn’t place the blame solely on her, he couldn’t ignore the actions of Tyrion, Varys, his family, _himself_. He couldn’t brush away the knowledge that she may not have done what she did if they didn’t do what they did. But Sam didn’t understand it. To Jon everything was blurred and muddled, to Sam and everyone else there was an immovable and solid line between good and evil. Tully, Royce, Sam, even his family, all saw themselves as very clearly _good_ , that cruel actions they took out of revenge or during war were justified because they were good. Daenerys wasn’t granted that convenience by them. Her father was seen as evil, and so she was born evil. It was all so obvious to him; he only wishes others would listen and look long enough to understand. “Maybe she wasn’t in her right mind. Maybe she felt betrayed and abandoned by her advisors, rejected by those she loved. Maybe the grief of losing everything she did finally overcame her. Maybe she felt alone. She isn’t her father, Sam.” His words are quiet, sad, and serious. He knows the love he has for her is painfully obvious, but he can’t mask it, he can’t speak in her defense without the forceful energy it gives him.

To his surprise and relief, Sam doesn’t reject his impassioned defense right away, he sits with it for a quiet moment, leaning back and staring into the fire. “A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” He mumbles it so quietly Jon almost lost it to the loud current of his own thoughts.  

“What?”

“Something Maester Aemon once said to me. He was talking about her, how he wished he could be there for her, in Meereen. Aiding her, advising her,” He feels anger scraping against his mind at Sam’s words, nothing more than the response of someone ready to defend his love from slander, but he pushes it away. “At the time I thought he meant terrible for her. Not terrible for the world.”

“Perhaps it was terrible for the world because it was terrible for her.”

“Daenerys Targaryen suffered and so she made the world suffer with her,” Sam says, almost wistfully, like he was telling a story. “That doesn’t excuse—”

“I _know_ , Sam. But it’s all I can say. Think what you will of her, of me, but I will stand by her side, always.”

Sam lets out a frustrated huff, his eyes focused on the ground, darting around rapidly as he searches for a different argument that may work in his favor. When he finds one that he’s satisfied with, he looks up, any determination he had replaced with desperation. “You’re with her because you love her. I understand that, but you know what she did wasn’t right. Death is the only suitable punishment, you said it yourself—”

“Think carefully on your next words, Sam,” he nearly growls, the anger washing over him like a storm before he could stop it. “She is the Queen. And treason is still treason.”

“She isn’t Queen, yet. And you aren’t the King,” Sam bites back, his desperate frustration getting the better of him. “You won’t allow her to be properly punished for her crimes, fine. But if you have a shred of honor you won’t reward her for them.”

“So, what would you suggest I do?” he asks between gritted teeth. He hated how people used his honor to try and sway him, manipulate him.

“You have the best claim to the throne, she doesn’t,” he balls his hands into fists, his nails biting into his already abused palms. “We have sufficient evidence to support that claim. The people will rally to you, they’ll support you. Lord Tully will, Lord Arryn will, you sister will,” His breathing becomes quicker, louder, his anger fills his whole body. He barely manages to contain it. “You don’t need her to be named King. When you have the title, you can formally spare her life. She isn’t put to death and she isn’t rewarded.” He finishes proudly, as if he’d just solved all of Jon’s problems in a single sentence.

Jon lets out a dark chuckle. “Sam, you keep mentioning my claim as if it means anything. You call me the _rightful_ heir, as if the Targaryens weren’t deposed by Robert Baratheon. Even if Daenerys wasn’t next in line, the throne is hers by right of conquest. It’s _hers_.” It’s the only argument he can use against Sam’s, really. Sam doesn’t care how much he doesn’t want the throne for himself, Jon could formally abdicate within the hour and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“That won’t matter to the people—”

“It matters to me. She’s suffered her entire life because of the damn thing, I won’t let it cause her any more pain.”

“Because you love her.”

“Because I love her,” he meets Sam’s gaze head on, daring him interrupt. “And I know she’s good. You don’t see it, but _try_ , Sam…just try to see it from my eyes. If Gilly did something terrible, something that warranted a death sentence, could you do it? Could you kill her yourself?”

Sam tries to reason with him again, quick and sympathetic in his answer. “If Gilly did what _she_ did, then she wouldn’t be the woman that I love. If the duty of bringing justice fell onto me, I would do it.” His answer is so brittle in its truth, it’s nearly laughable. But it works in Jon’s favor, Sam wouldn’t be able to stand aside and watch his love die, let alone swing the sword himself. Love made even the most dutiful men subservient to its power. But stronger men would take on the duty love bestowed on them, cherish it and see it for the gift it was, and carry out that duty proudly.

“What if you went to her after she’d done it…and she was exactly who you fell in love with? The same woman, only more afraid and hurt. And alone,” he says softly, his heart aching painfully at the memory of that day. “And she asked you to choose her. Begged you. Would you be able to do it then?”

Sam furrows his brows, in worry, sympathy, pity. Perhaps he shouldn’t have revealed so much of his heart, but he desperately wanted _someone_ to understand. Arya knew his feelings, but she didn’t love someone the way he loved Daenerys, she hasn’t experienced this all-consuming fire that overcomes him whenever she’s near. He’s sure no man has ever loved a woman as intensely and as wildly as he loves Daenerys, but he hopes he can make Sam _see_ the reason for his choices.

“Jon…what if you’re only seeing what you want to see?”

“I’m not, Davos sees it, too,” he says quickly. “She isn’t her father. I can’t tell you why she did what she did…she hasn’t even spoken to me about it, but I know she won’t do it again, Sam. I _know_ it.”

“But she’s already done it once.” He whispers back, as if he’s delivering terrible news to Jon.

He sighs loudly, dropping his head back in his hands, exhausted. “We’re talking in circles.”

He pulls himself up, upset with the both of them. At Sam for not grasping what he’s saying, not trying to understand, and himself for failing at it. Failing her. He wants nothing more than to go back to their chambers and pull her close, press his lips to hers, cradle the life growing in her womb, and forget the bitter reality surrounding them.

“Will you be in the city tomorrow?” he asks, unable to look at Sam in the eye. He’s too angry, afraid he might look up to see Sam look at him incredulously and snap, snatch his soldiers and shake him until he swears to give her a _chance_. But it wouldn’t be fair, Sam has every right to believe what he wants, no matter how much Jon insisted she was far from the evil tyrant everyone believed her to me. He simply had to have patience and pray once again to those fickle gods that the things they saw with their own eyes would be enough to have them question what they believe. Jon would push them, turn their eyes, force them the speak with her, he couldn’t _not_ help it along, but they would see on their own. They had to. They must.

“I…I suppose so, Your Grace.” Sam says swiftly, standing up to follow Jon to the door.

“Join me,” he commands, firm and hard. “Please. As I said, I won’t force you to change your opinion of her, but you won’t be ignorant to her character anymore. I can show you that she isn’t mad…she isn’t her father.”

“Nothing you show me will make the truth disappear, Jon,” he replies, sad and defeated. It’s as if he understands what Jon wants, but has already decided not to give it to him.

“It won’t,” he agrees with a sad smile and he opens the door. “Your thoughts aren’t treason, Sam. And you’re allowed to voice your opinions to me. I won’t punish you for them, so long as you accept that nothing you say will make me act against her. She’s going to be my Queen, my _wife_. Accept it.”

He walks away, hearing the door slowly close behind him, picking up his pace as soon as he hears the low click of a lock sliding into place. He needs to get to her before the disappointment and anger overwhelm him. He needs to drench himself in their happiness to replenish his resolve and find strength in the one truth that makes sense to him.

He passes the courtyard again, finding the braziers dying out and the food being cleared by kitchen staff. He offers a brief smile to them before continuing down the corridor to their chambers, the tension slowly releasing its grip on his body with every step. It won’t free him completely until he sees her, safe and sheltered and his.

He turns a corner so quickly, the Unsullied he crashes into nearly impales him with his spear. Recognition crosses the man’s before he can drive it forward and he resumes his rigid position, giving Jon a quick nod in what he thinks is apology. He doesn’t spare him a second glance, his eyes are focused on the door at the end of the hall, the soft light emanating from underneath it.

His hand finally reaches the knob and not a second later the door is open, his nose filling with the familiar scent of her, his eyes pulled to her immediately. She’s sitting on the bed, her hair free from their tight braids, falling in silver waves down her back, over her shoulders, engrossed in whatever was written on the parchment she held in her hand. Instead of her usual white gown, she’s wearing a red one, muted and so dark it’s almost black, the ties in the front loose, exposing her collarbone to him. It must be one of the many new items of clothing Merri was having made for her. He stares at her, taking the sweet sight, all his anger washing away and being thrown outside the doors, being replaced with the peace he only feels with her. He doesn’t tear his eyes away as he softly shuts the door behind him, the creak of hinges finally catching her attention.

She gives him a smile, her eyes crinkling in corners. It almost overwhelms him. It’s such a simple action, so brief it could have been met with a quick lift of his own lips and the moment would have passed. But seeing her there, after facing a day of near treasonous words and hate, all against her, only reminds him that it’s all worth it just to be greeted with that smile for the rest of his days. A smile that says _welcome home._ He hopes their child has her smile; he hopes their eyes crinkle in the corners whenever they see him.

“Your meal is on the table,” she says softly. “So is your ale, but I must ask you not to bring it over here, the smell unsettles my stomach.”

He walks over to her, ignoring the meal set for him, his need to touch her taking precedent over his hunger.

He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to take her lips in his. She sinks into the kiss, pulling him even closer, her hand moving up to grasp the curls at the nape of his neck.

He starts to lean closer still, ready to skip everything else in their routine and end the day as they usually do, but she breaks away.

“Eat,” she says in a breathy command.

“I’m not hungry for food.” He mumbles back, trying to catch her lips.

She laughs, leaning away from him. “Well…I am. Bring it over here and we can share. Your child is insatiable, Jon Snow.”

“Did you not eat enough at supper?” he asks, amusement in his words. He can’t help but feel light and giddy whenever their baby is mentioned. The secrecy takes his toll on him when he wants nothing more than to go to everyone he cares for and announce that he’s going to be a father. And it hurts him more when he realizes that they wouldn’t celebrate the news as he would, instead they would ask again, _why her._ When it’s just the two of them, he can be happy without working for it.

“I thought of taking a second helping but no one else did…and they already looked at me funny when I chose not to drink the wine,” she says, her voice taking on a worried tone. “I think we may have to start telling people. Maybe just them…and Grey Worm.”

He smiles. “I agree,” Grey Worm will find some way to be even more thorough in her protection and he’d be able to breathe a little easier. “I want to tell Arya.”

She’s quiet for a moment and he pulls back, watching her. If fear shines in her eyes for even a fraction of a second, he’ll dismiss the idea completely, but all he sees is a shy nervousness. And uncertainty.

“Do you trust her?” strangely, he does. No matter how upsetting she may find the news, she wouldn’t react with violence. She wouldn’t threaten his child, her kin. Jon also hopes it will soften her rigid view of Daenerys, to be subject to yet another link between them; she won’t just be Jon’s wife, she’ll be the mother of his child. Her niece or nephew. It’s a small hope, nonetheless, he won’t let it slip away from him.

“I do,” he says. “I trust her not to use it against us.”

“Against _you_.”

“If she says one word to you, I’ll have her thrown in a cell.” Arya could be cold, calculating. She could say a number of things to chip away at the happiness that impending motherhood brought Daenerys. She wouldn’t suffer anymore, and certainly not because of his own blood. Daenerys was meant to be happy, always, and he would see to it that she was by any means necessary.

“Don’t make threats against your sister, Jon,” she scolds. “I know you would react differently if I said the same thing.”

“It’s different, Daenerys. I need to protect you—”

“I don’t _need_ your protection.” She says defiantly.

“I know that, love. But I need to. For me. I need to know that I’m doing everything I can to help ensure your safety, and I’ll treat my sister the same as I would anyone who makes a threat against you.”

She frowns slightly, his answer not making her any happier. He understands, the last thing she needs to feel is weak, but he can’t depend on everyone around them to keep her safe on their own. Should she ever get so much as a scratch on her, he would blame himself, and spend days sitting with the guilt.

“She hasn’t made a threat, Jon. Don’t speak about her as someone who has. She’s still you sister, and it seems like she loves you enough to tolerate my presence. We should both be happy enough with that.” The sadness in her voice tells him that she’s gotten lost in her own words, as if she were speaking to herself instead of him. “Tell her, if you wish. Whatever she says to me, I’ll can deal with on my own.”

“If she threatens you?”

“Then I’ll speak with you about it, but you won’t make any decisions without me or on my behalf.”

It’s the most she’ll compromise and he’s happy with it. Sometimes he forgets who she was before he came into her life, the things she’d done before him. From the moment he saw her, he’s been so consumed by her that he’s forgotten what _his_ life was before. Sure, he remembers events, he remembers conversations, but he can’t quite remember himself. He almost can’t believe he was able to carry on as if he wasn’t missing such an integral part of his existence. But he was able to, he’d joined the Night’s Watch when he only knew her to be some lost princess thrown to the edge of the world to be forgotten, he was named Lord Commander when he thought her to be a mystical woman surrounded by rumors of beauty and dragons, he was named King in the North when her name hadn’t brushed against his ears in years, he went to Dragonstone when she was only an idea in his mind, when all he focused his mind on was persuading her to abandon her war for his. And then he saw her, and everything thing he thought he cared for slowly shifted to a small corner of his mind, making a permanent space for her, revolving around it. But he did exist before her, and she him. She’d birthed dragons, freed millions, conquered cities, before she’d ever heard his name. She isn’t just the woman he loved, the mother of his child, she was the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains. Daenerys Stormborn. She’s had a lifetime of hearing insults thrown at her; she didn’t need him to handle Arya.

He smiles in thanks, placing a quick kiss on her lips, quietly telling her he was going to wash up and ready for bed. She smiles back and tells him to hurry, because her empty stomach was becoming a nuisance.

A quarter of an hour later, he’s settling into their bed. He’s quick to pull her close and feel her body pressed against his. Forgoing the ale, he sips on a Dornish wine, too sweet for him, but a smell that she’s able to stomach. She takes the bowl of stew from him, warm now, remembering to feed him small bites in between her own. She eats most of it, while he eats the majority of the fresh loaf of bread.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding towards the small piece of forgotten parchment beside her legs.

“I was trying to make a list, people to bring into our small council. I wasn’t very successful.”

“Perhaps I can help,” he says, snatching the parchment up, smiling when he sees the names on the short list. “Perhaps not…but at least you and I are of the same mind.”

“Do you think he’d want to be named Hand?”

“I think he’d think it a great honor. And he’s already proven himself a thousand times over.” He couldn’t think of a person more deserving of the title than Davos. He was the only person willing to give her a chance to prove herself, to see Jon’s actions for more than those of a foolish man blinded by love.

“He has. And selfishly, I would miss his kindness if he left.”

“I don’t think he’d leave, but he deserves recognition for his efforts. He should know how much we value his council.”

“We can ask him after we’re wed,” she says, making his heart flutter in anticipation. Though it’s outwardly a formality, he can’t wait to be hers. Whatever doubts or insecurities she still has in her mind will be shoved away by the sacred vows they’ll exchange. There was no room for them, and she’ll never feel as if she’s alone in the world again; he’ll make sure of it. “Yara implied that she would be happy to be more than an ally to the crown, and I think we’d be foolish to turn away the council of someone I trust.”

“You won’t find any objection from me. Master of Ships? She would be able to oversee any trade deals we make with Meereen.”

“Master of Ships.” She replies in affirmation. “I’m afraid that’s as far as I’ve gotten…Gendry shouldn’t take on more than he’s able, he needs to learn to be a Lord first. Storm’s End will be under our observation for a long while, at least while he gathers his bearings. Do we have a Warden of the South?”

At the mention of Sam, a cloud comes over his ease. “I can’t be sure. I’ll give him a few days to think on it. I need to think on it as well.” He thought he could trust Sam implicitly, though he wasn’t sure anymore. His bitter words against Daenerys may taint their friendship beyond repair.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, her words small and guilt-ridden. “I never meant to isolate you from anyone…perhaps I should speak with him. Apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says firmly. He wasn’t privy to the details that led to Lord Tarly and his son’s executions, but he knew the broader details. Her actions may not have been his own, but she wasn’t unjust in them. “To him or to me. If they distance themselves from me, it won’t anyone’s choice but their own.

“That may be true, but their actions are in response to me. I can’t help but feel sorry for it.”

“Then I forgive you, always,” She’s quiet, taking his hand into her lap and entwining their fingers together. He attempts to steer their conversation to lighter waters. “What about the Prince? He doesn’t seem eager to leave your side.” It works, pulling a small huff of laughter from her.

“And you want to give him an _official_ reason to be here?”

“I think if he continues to treat you with kindness and respect; he’ll grow on me.”

“I know you jest, but I hope you know you have no reason to worry. I’m yours, Jon Snow.”

Her words awaken something primal in him, they always do when she reminds him of their claims to one another. He isn’t worried at all, though he often doubts that he deserves her, knowing that there are better men in the world than him. He doesn’t let his insecurities plague him, though, he’s too selfish. By some miracle she chose to love him, and he would hold onto that love with all he had. Instead of acting on the white-hot flame ignited in him, he wills himself to be patient, knowing that he needs to dampen their evening for a moment longer and make his worries known.

“I’m not worried, Dany. That lofty prince won’t be able to steal your affections without a fight, and I have no doubt that I could easily best him,” he assures with a smile, earning the coveted prize of her bell-like laughter. He sighs, hating that he must cut at her joy with the sharp edge of their reality. “I’m having guards watch over Lord Royce and Lord Tully.” Sam as well, if his friend was just as hostile tomorrow as he was today.

His Queen is shrewd, and she understands what his words mean straight away. Raw ire fills her eyes before the flame reduces to a soft ember, and sadness paints her features. “What did they say?” she asks in a stilted voice.

“They share the same concerns as everyone else. And they have a right to voice them, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take precautions.”

“I suppose I was too confident with this morning…naively so,” she mumbles, berating herself. “Yara and Quentyn were so kind, I almost forgot the world wasn’t against me.”

“Listen to me,” he says lowly, leaning his forehead to hers, grasping her hand tightly. “That’s two more people than we had yesterday. I said it would be difficult, but we can do it. I know we can.”

“I hope you’re right, Jon Snow,” she whispers back, her free hand falling to her lower stomach. To their baby. “I want our child to have all the love in the world, they won’t have that when their own mother has all the hate.”

 _You don’t have all the hate, you are loved fiercely, and by many._ He wants to say it, but he knows it won’t help. She’d counter with the truths he prefers not to think about. She doesn’t have all the hate, but she has much of it. She was loved, to be true, but the voices against her were always louder and cut more deeply that any decelerations of devotion.

He takes the empty bowl from her lap, setting it down next to the parchment with two names on the table beside the bed. He gulps down the rest of his wine, trying not to make a face as the sweet drink hits his tongue. This time she rises from the bed, going around the room to blow out the candles until their room is lit by nothing but the burning fire. He watches her silently as she moves, taking in her form, visible through her gown whenever she passes in front of the fire. His lust returns to the surface once again for what seems like the hundredth time that night, and he makes no effort to push it back down.

She climbs into the bed quickly, rushing to curl into his side, pressing her small feet into his calves, making him flinch. He feels her smile into his chest. “The stones are cold.” She explains, throwing her arm over him, pulling herself closer. “It isn’t supposed to be this cold in the south.”

“It’s going to get colder still.”

“I don’t think it’s something I can grow used to. I need to be kept warm, for my health as well as the babe’s,” she says in a serious manner. “I’m afraid that duty falls on the King.”

He wraps his arm tightly around her waist and flips them over, trapping her beneath him. He hovers over her, leaning in slowly to brush his lips against hers. “I’ll carry out my duties as best I can, my Queen.” And he kisses her deeply, intent on doing just that.

\--------------

She walks swiftly, smirking whenever she sees people jump slightly when they see her pass them, her silent footsteps not warning them of her approach. She’s alert, her hand resting on Needle, her eyes darting around for a threat she knows won’t come. She can’t help it, she’s been on her guard for weeks, waiting for the Dragonfire to light up the sky and paint the streets white with ash. She’s beginning to grow doubtful of its return, but she can’t make her body relax, she can’t forget what she’d seen as easily as everyone else seems to have done.

She passes scores of people huddled together around bright fires, looking miserable and content all at once. Some have bowls of hot soup cupped in their hands, some have cups filled with whatever drink the kitchens had chosen to serve that day. Some are laughing, leaning into one another, sharing stories as if everything was right in the world, others were staring into the fires, quiet, reliving the day the Dragon Queen came and took everything they held dear. The laughs anger her, she wants to run up to them and slap the smiles off their faces, ask them why they weren’t as angry as she was. They should be angrier than her. She’d killed their lovers, their friends, their children, their parents. She burned them alive. She hadn’t killed anyone Arya loved, but she’d taken Jon. It felt worse than death, in some ways. Her brother was alive and well, and with _her_. He should be dead to her, but he wasn’t, he was _Jon_ , the brother she loved the most, the brother who gave her Needle. She couldn’t abandon him and for some reason, he couldn’t abandon _her_.

Arya understands that her loves her, she could see it in the times she saw them together. She hates to admit it, but he looked truly happy with her, happy in a way she’d never seen. When he smiles at her, all the lines that aged him disappeared, as if the sight of her unburdened all the worry he’d ever felt in his lifetime. And Arya knew he’d worried more than most. More than anyone, really. In their youth, he worried about how he presented himself whenever her mother was near, always trying to be acceptable, though never better than her trueborn children. He was always occupied with finding the medium that would keep him hidden from her criticism. And it was always a very thin and particular medium. After he’d left for the Wall, his worry shifted to the existence of the White Walkers, piling onto his worry for his family being torn apart in the South. He always worries. It was a personality trait of Jon’s. But not with her. She had long accepted that he loves her, but part of her doubts that’s what’s keeping him from leaving. Even love couldn’t make someone look past what she’d done. _Forgive_ what she’d done. But he seems to have done both.

At first, she believed that the Dragon Queen had threatened him, made him comply with her wishes. She had her heart set on that belief. Anything to make sense of Jon’s actions, his words and his threats. Even after he insisted otherwise, she held onto it, but she finally let it slip away after the meeting they held. She had watched them closely, waiting for fear or anger to cross Jon’s face whenever he looked at her, but much to her disgust, she only saw that love. His eyes softened in a way that almost made him seem unthreatening and they steeled over quickly when a word was said against her. He got angrier than Daenerys did.  Arya couldn’t understand it. Love was a strong emotion, she knows, but emotions have their limits. Everyone loved someone else to a certain extent and love was conditional. It had to be. People fall in and out of love all the time, sometimes within a single day. Or a single night. Jon’s love couldn’t be any different, so why was he still by her side? It could be lust, Daenerys Targaryen was beautiful, and though Arya didn’t give two shits about a person’s outward appearance, she knew looks could be used to one’s advantage. Even still, Daenerys was just a woman, and Jon never seemed the type to let carnal desires dictate his choices. If it was something as simple as lust, Jon could easily find another woman to bed, even if she didn’t have the rare beauty of the Dragon Queen. No, it couldn’t be only lust, she couldn’t push such a flaw onto Jon.

And _her_. The Dragon Queen. Daenerys Targaryen. Arya spent hours upon hours watching her, and everything the woman did made her seethe with anger. She couldn’t understand her motives, her intentions. Jon had told her that she wants to make amends, wants to help the city she’d massacred, help them rebuild their lives, but someone so cruel, so…mad couldn’t want something as simple as that. No, Arya believed she wants something else, something more. But she couldn’t figure out what it was. She watched the Dragon Queen closely, her heart beating faster in dreaded anticipation whenever anger colored the woman’s striking Valyrian features. She waited for her black beast to flap his wings and land behind her and knock down the fragile structures around them. But he never did, and the anger never stayed for more than a few seconds. Even more frustrating, the anger was never directed at whatever poor soul had conjured it, she always got a faraway look in her eye, her anger dancing around her, lost without a visible target. Arya couldn’t make sense of it.

What made her blood boil even more was the look of sorrow on the woman’s face. She’d perfected it, so much so that it seemed to fool everyone else. It must be fooling Jon. But not Arya. Sometimes the woman looked so pained Arya had to look away, remind herself that it wasn’t real. Next to the sorrow was the shame, Arya relished that look and much as she hated it. She _should_ be ashamed of what she’d done, but someone like the Dragon Queen wouldn’t be able to feel it. It confounded her. All of it. But that didn’t make her abandon her watch. She wouldn’t let the Dragon Queen do it again and she wouldn’t count on Jon to take the necessary actions to stop it before it did. No, she would be ready. She would take on that duty herself, to rid the world of another tyrant as well as relieve her brother of taking an action that would haunt him for the rest of his days. All she had to do was wait. And watch. She couldn’t do it unprovoked; she would lose her brother that way, he would never forgive her. Perhaps even with good cause, she would lose him when she killed the Dragon Queen.

She walks past boarded windows, lights glowing through the narrow slats in the wood. She hears the quiet moans of people in pain, and it poked at her anger again. She couldn’t deny that Jon’s decisions may have done some good. Without him using whatever influence he had on the Dragon Queen, she was sure the nights wouldn’t be nearly as quiet, as peaceful. She imagines the streets would still be lined with the sick and the dying, blankets thrown on them in an effort to make it seem like she cared. Without Jon, she imagines the Red Keep would be the picture of a beautiful reconstruction, and people would be forced to stand on long lines outside the castle to swear fealty to the Dragon Queen. She sees Unsullied and Dothraki walking the streets, quiet and deadly. Despite all her many glaring faults, the Dragon Queen had a firm command over her armies. And for that, Arya was grateful. Without Jon, she imagines the horrors would have continued, and the Dothraki would have plundered the decimated city in violent celebration while the Unsullied turned a blind eye and waited for their Queen’s command. It would have been gruesome. It could still be gruesome, if Jon loses favor with her.

Again, anger pricks at her. Jon wouldn’t lose favor with her. She loves him, it was painfully obvious, no matter how much Arya wants to pretend it isn’t there. But the Dragon Queen’s love was just as much a mystery as Jon’s, just for a different reason. Jon was a threat to her; he always would be. Maybe she loves him enough to keep him alive, but the woman was skilled at wearing masks. She may have perfected love as she had sorrow.  She wants her brother to be happy, to feel the love he does, but she hates that he’s proclaimed he would only ever feel it with _her_. She hates even more that the Dragon Queen is holding onto his love, and not allowing him to find it with someone more deserving. But how could that ever happen now? Jon has a better claim to the throne, people were learning of his true identity, and if there was anything the Dragon Queen loved more than Jon, it was power. All tyrants love power more than anything else, and they would do anything to keep hold of it. The Dragon Queen was rewarded for her evils with the love of the only man who could end her. And he wouldn’t do it.

She makes it to her destination, the sound of childish laughter filling her ears. She wants to grab the children and shake them too, tell them that they’re only here because of her. Because she killed their parents and left them orphaned. She imagines children littering the streets, begging for food, girls being taken and violated by disgusting older men. Without Jon, it might have happened. Instead, they’re safe and warm and fed. And to her disgust, they credit the Dragon Queen for it. She can’t stomach their naivety, their innocent resilience and willingness to forget.

She walks up the entryway, only to be stopped by the sudden appearance of spears crossing in front of her, the Unsullied quick and powerful in their movements. She looks at the man to her right, meeting his eyes, the only feature visible through his helmet. They dart down to her hip, to Needle, and she shakes her head. Instead, she walks back down the steps, and takes a seat on the last one. She would wait. She wouldn’t relinquish her sword, her opportunity to do what was right if she were given the chance.

She watches the few people around her, most of them guards focused on their duty, others common folk, ordinary people taking late night walks, completely at ease, forgetting that they don’t have a home to walk to because of _her_. She resists her need to run up and remind them, ask them if they would normally be walking with someone else, if they were turned to ash by the Dragon Queen. She wants to, badly, but she knows it isn’t right to hurt them by reminding them of what they’d had taken from them. She doesn’t want to hurt the people more than they’d already been hurt; she wants to hurt her. Daenerys. Remind _her_ of what she’d taken. She tried when she was able to speak with her alone, but all she received was that irritating mask of sorrow and despair. Arya almost fell for it because the woman eyes had glossed over, as if she was retreating into herself, as if she’d forgotten Arya was in front of her. It was an insult to the people she’d slaughtered, no matter how real it had seemed in that moment.

She isn’t sure how long she sits, staring at the ground as soft flurries of snow fell, slowly growing into a large, white blanket. It would be muddied and gone by daybreak, when the streets were once again busy with workers and builders, but tonight it looked beautiful and peaceful and untouched by the violence inflicted onto the city. Her eyes are torn away by the sound of the double doors behind her swinging open, accompanied by the gruff, friendly voice of Ser Davos bidding the children a goodnight, and wishing them to have sweet dreams of summer and warmth.

He spots her quickly, his eyebrows rising in surprise at her sudden appearance. They had seen each other multiple times, but she never approached him, and he never left the Queen’s side. That angered her too. Ser Davos didn’t love her as Jon did. There was no logical or moral reason, however stupid, that he should continue to stand by her side.

“Lady Stark,” he greets, voice wary already. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I’m not a Lady,” she says, dismissing the title. “I want to speak with you. Do you have the time?”

“Aye,” he agrees, after staring at her for a moment, trying to read her intentions. He was unsuccessful, she was sure to keep her face free of emotion. “If you’ll allow me a few minutes to grab some food before it’s stored away…”

“Of course,” she says. The people had food because of Jon. And yet he allowed her to take the credit. At first, she tried not eat what was prepared, determined not to take anything _she_ was offering, as if she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart rather that an act of obligation. But it’s all there was to eat, the forest around the city had somehow dried out, leaving nothing but dead wood and dirt. She likes to think the people only tolerate her because there was nothing else they could do. To her dismay, she had no choice but to eat what was served as well, and every time she silently thanks her brother for her meal. “I’ll go with you.”

They walk in silence, Ser Davos oblivious to the storm of question she was about to rain on him or acting as if the cloud wasn’t above him. She needed to know _why_ , she needed to know if Jon was acting against his will, if he was. Davos’ mind wasn’t clouded by lust or love, she could listen to what he said without fear of bias and perhaps she could try to understand. For Jon’s sake.

When the reach they food tables, the lines are short, no longer crowded with hungry and impatient mouths as they were in the first few days, when people were worried about when they would be fed next. They’d come to expect food daily and were less anxious about empty stomachs. Davos takes a bowl of stew, a roll of bread, and a cup of spiced cider. She takes the same, once again impressed that there is meat in the stew. They don’t serve meat at every meal, but they serve it almost every day, in some capacity. Jon’s doing, she knows. 

She leads him to an empty table nearby, piled with stacks of rocks and wood. It’s a worktable, but no one is working at the late hour and she wants as much privacy as she could get.

They eat quietly, Ser Davos happy to ignore the tension rolling off her, patiently waiting for her to speak first.

“Why her?” she asks after allowing him to eat in peace for a few minutes. She doesn’t want to dance around the issue, she wants to drive forward with her sharp words, hoping to disarm him.

“I take it you don’t want her to be Queen?” he replies, setting down the half-eaten roll, looking up at her.

“No one does. No one but Jon…and you it seems. Why?” she presses forward, impatient for an answer that would make some sense to her.

“She has a good heart.”

She tries not to roll her eyes. “She’s a murderer.”

“Aye, that she is. So am I. So is Jon,” his eyes dart to her sword. “And so are you, I suspect. It seems rarer to have your hands completely unstained by death. We’re all killers, in some way or another.”

It was a poor argument; they both knew it. What _she_ did was different.

“Robin Arryn hasn’t killed anyone.” Acts of violence are always a choice. Jon chose to fight in battles, so did Ser Davos, Arya herself chose to bring justice to her family. _She_ chose to murder thousands of unarmed innocents. It was different.

“I’ve heard Lord Arryn enjoys dangling men from the Moon Door in the Eyrie. One day he’ll let them fall. He’ll give the order and become a killer, same as the rest of us.”

She tries again. “Bran has never killed anyone, nor would he ever.” She didn’t know if it was true, she didn’t understand her brother now, but she couldn’t imagine he’d take someone’s life, let alone thousands of them.

Ser Davos shakes his head, taking a swig of his cider. “So, the Ruler of Westeros should be someone with hands as clean as a newborn babe’s? Does that mean your brother Bran should be king?

Her irritation gets the best of her, he wasn’t _listening_. She sets her own cup down hard, the warm liquid spilling out the sides of the cup. “No, you know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not talking about you or me or Jon. I’m talking about her. She _murdered_ people. People that didn’t deserve death. People that didn’t have a chance to fight it.”

 _Finally_ , he looks away, sighing heavily.

She continues on, unwilling to let him shy away any further from the truth. “She’s orphaned children, Ser Davos. Burned children alive.” She heard what happened to the Princess Shireen. The girl he loved like a daughter. She heard how heartbroken he was, how angry. She knew he had wanted to kill Melisandre with his own hand. So did she, but neither of them had the satisfaction. _How could he forgive this?_

“I know that…I can’t ever forget it. Or unsee it.”

She hears the sadness in his voice, but she won’t take pity on him. “Yet you stand by her side every day. Working with her, _protecting_ her.”

“I know how it looks,” he starts, his eyes set on the table. “When Jon asked me to stay here and help him…I nearly laughed in his face. When he said he would rule with her I wanted to slap some sense into him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because he looked absolutely broken. Nearly helpless except for the fire in his eyes.”

“He was helpless, and you should have helped him. You should have convinced him to leave or make him see that she needed to pay for her crimes.”

“Helpless, not senseless. He knew what he was asking of me. He wouldn’t ask it of me if he wasn’t sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure of her. He believes in her with everything he has. And I believe in him. I stayed for him, not her.”

“But you’re with her every day, I’ve seen you smile at her. You watch her sitting with those dying children like she isn’t the one who burned off their skin.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. Good. “She did. I won’t ever forgive those actions. But it isn’t my forgiveness she needs to ask for, it’s theirs. And she’s asking, every day. No one has forgiven her for it.”

“It seems as if they have.”

“They haven’t. Not at all. Some say horrible things to her—”

“Not undeserved.”

“Not completely, no. But still, she asks.”

“Why is she given the chance the ask at all? Other aren’t afforded that kindness, and I’m sure others are more deserving of it.”

“To put it simply, she was given the chance because Jon believed she would pour all her efforts into it. And it’s my opinion that she is trying to do just that.”

“So, you agree. Jon only lets her live because he loves her.” It wasn’t a question, she just wanted confirmation.

“Aye, I think that has something to do with it, but Jon does what is right above all else. He had the chance to kill her that day. He nearly did, he told me. But he knew it wouldn’t be right.”

For the first time in days, the anger she feels is at her brother. He had the chance to do it, to rid the world of someone that dangerous, and instead he turned and was choosing to act as her shield against all the others who want her dead.

“How can he know that? She did it, not even he can pretend otherwise.”

“He isn’t pretending, he’s reminded every day.”

“And yet he loves her as if she never did it.”

“He loves her _despite_ the fact that she did it.”

“How can he love someone like that?” Her own voice sounds small and defeated to her own ears. Love. The answer Jon keeps giving her. The answer that doesn’t make sense.

“I don’t know…I truly don’t. It must be a powerful kind of love. But he does, and that love spared her life, saved her from facing a tragic death.”

“Nothing about it would have been tragic.”

“Do you truly think that? Murdered by the man she loves after she’s watched her closest friends die, after she’s betrayed and abandoned by her advisors, after she’s lost two dragons. After she lost half her forces protecting a Kingdom that never thanked her. That’s a tragic tale if I’ve ever heard one.”

She knows some of his words are directed at her, but she won’t feel badly for it. Daenerys wasn’t one of them, and she was right not to trust her.

“Killed after she’s slaughtered a city. It’s a tale of justice, not one of tragedy.” Ser Davos is quiet after that and begins to pick at the second half of his bread roll. “Jon loves her, fine. But you? You may have stayed for Jon, but you’ve done more than that now. Jon’s told me repeatedly that he won’t ask me to follow her, I’m sure he said the same to you.”

“He has, and in the beginning, I was with her because he asked me to be. He practically pleaded with me to understand why he was making the choices he was making, and so I did.”

Jon had asked him to try. She feels shame pass through her quickly. Very quickly. She knew wasn’t trying as hard as Ser Davos had, but it was different. Ser Davos was Jon’s advisor and she was his sister.  

“And you’re still trying?”

“Aye, I am. And every day I understand a little more why he couldn’t do it. Why he never will. Call it what you will, but her time in Westeros has been nothing but tragic. Hells, her entire life has been littered with tragedy. And instead of comfort, her grief was greeted with betrayal.”

“Lots of lives have been littered with tragedy. With betrayal. Mine was. And yet I didn’t kill thousands of people because of it.” _I killed all the Freys._ She pushes the thought from her mind. She didn’t kill the women and children, only the guilty men. There were no similarities between her and Daenerys Targaryen.

“You didn’t have a dragon.”

“You think she only did it because she had a dragon?” She’s unimpressed with the explanation.

“No, I think she felt too much. There’s only so much tragedy anyone can take. Unfortunately, she was on the back of her dragon when she felt it the strongest,” Arya opens her mouth, ready to bite back, but he holds up his hands in defense. “It’s not an excuse. Only an explanation. One that makes sense to me, one that makes me believe she _does_ have a good heart.”

Arya feels a small flutter of pity in her stomach for the woman, but she ignores it. “She’s a Targaryen, she’s just like her father. Madness is in her blood.”

Davos throws her a look of offense. “It wasn’t madness. We’ve all heard the tales of her father. Does she seem to be celebrating what she did?”

“No, but she’s reaping the rewards of it. She’s taking the crown anyway.”

“Aye, because it’s her responsibility to right her wrongs. She can only do that from a position of power.”

“That maybe be true, but we know what else she can do with power. It’s too great a risk.”

“I thought so as well, at first. But as I’ve said, I tried for Jon. And I don’t believe she’ll ever do it again.”

“She may not,” Arya only says it because she knows he won’t change his mind. “But does she deserve to be Queen?”

“Perhaps not, but she will be, I don’t see anything changing that. I don’t think she’ll find any joy in it, she’ll spend a lifetime asking for forgiveness that may never come. But she’s determined to do it all the same.”

“She shouldn’t have a lifetime to ask for forgiveness. She doesn’t deserve that mercy.”

“She doesn’t deserve to be condemned to death, either. Targaryens fly high and fall hard, and this one was lucky enough to have someone there to break her fall and help her back up. It wouldn’t be right to shove her into the ground. Not now.”

“If I can’t use her name to explain her actions, you can’t use it to excuse them.”

“I suppose you’re right but it’s what I believe to be true. You’re speaking with the knowledge of stories and history; I’m speaking with the knowledge of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I don’t _want_ to know Daenerys Targaryen.”

“It’s seems you might not have a choice, m’lady. She’ll be your sister by marriage, your brother’s wife. If you want to be in his life, she’ll be in yours.”

“I don’t need to see her to see Jon. Unless she won’t allow him to leave her side. I wouldn’t put it past her.” It’s nothing more than a small dig, an attempt at being defiant against the truths she doesn’t want to accept.

“It’s not her you need to worry about, it’s Jon,” Ser Davos says in warning. “And it won’t always be as simple as stealing away for a few hours to see his sister.”

She’s silent now, taking a moment to finish off her lukewarm cider and stands from her seat. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ser Davos.”

She leaves him at the table, hearing a faint ‘ _goodnight m’lady’_ as she walks further away. Their conversation did little to satisfy her search for reason and logic in her brother’s choices, it only piled on to that stupid, annoying explanation she keeps hearing. Love. He did what he did for love, even Ser Davos believed it, but he managed to find reason where she could not. Where she would not.

She passes the guards easily enough, even skilled soldier like the Unsullied had blind spots and the Dothraki paid her no mind. She walks one street over, and the picture is completely different. There’s no one in the streets, no light emanating from boarded windows, only the soft glow of the moonlight on untouched snow. She walks into the nearest building, where she stored her things earlier that day. She’ll need to move again soon; this street will be under construction within the next few days at the pace they’re working.  She quickly unrolls her blankets and lays down, folding into herself, trying to find some warmth. Outside, she hears the occasional footsteps of the guards, but other than that, the night is deafeningly quiet. She finds comfort in it, thankful that the air is absent of pained moans or the laughter than only angers hers. She doesn’t have the urge to fill it either, all the lives on her list have been crossed off, the ink dry. She sometimes thinks to start another, with only one name on it. But as she lays there in the peaceful quiet, she can’t find the will to speak it out loud.

\---------------

Daenerys wakes slowly, too content to rush it when she first starts drifting into consciousness. She feels warm, almost hot, but it only makes her want to dig deeper into his side and resist the day.

Still hovering in between, she starts questioning how rested she feels, wondering why she wasn’t pushed to the surface like she usually was. There wasn’t any nausea either, her stomach felt calm and settled. _There were no nightmares._ She wasn’t visited by the past last night, she realizes. She wasn’t forced to remember. She should be grateful for it, to be given a full night of rest, but she only feels guilty.

“What’s got you frowning so early?”

The gruff, raspy voice yanks her to the surface, her mind deciding that the pull of him is more appealing than the pull of sleep. She brushes away the guilt and it’s replaced by the guilt of ignoring it. Resigned to the fact that it will linger no matter what she does, she decides to instead focus her energy on the bigger feelings. The contentment, the love, the peace. The feelings only Jon conjures up, the feelings of home.

She smiles, keeping eyes closed. “Nothing.” She mumbles into his chest. The guilt flares with her answer.

He takes a deep breath, the kind he takes at the start of everyday. Sometimes it’s tired, sometimes it’s happy, but it’s always determined. Today it’s happy, and she knows why.

She feels his hand flex against her stomach, his thumb stroking it softly. She smiles again.

“I love you.” He says simply, softly. He says it often, but her heart flips just as wildly as it did the first time those words left his lips. _It was on the boat,_ she remembers. _When everything was new and exciting._ The newness had worn off, they were weathered and beaten, but she knew the excitement would never fade.

Beneath his hand, she feels the slightest flutter deep in her womb. There’s no wondering, she knows what it is the moment it happens. She’s felt it before. Even with her eyes closed, the tears gather. She knows that she’s never been happier than she is in that moment, with Jon waking beside her, and their baby safe and warm and _alive_ just beneath his hand. She’s never been more fearful either, she’s never had so much to lose.

“I love you,” she says back, her own voice thick with emotion, opening her eyes to look up at him.

Worry immediately takes over the serenity of his features, his free hand comes up to cup her face, his thumb gently wiping at an escaped tear. “What’s wrong?” he says forcefully, ready to defend her against anything that would make tears fill her eyes.

“Nothing at all,” she says again, and not even the guilt stands a chance against her joy. She leans up to kiss him deeply, taking his hand from her cheek and threading her fingers through his, trying to convey the happiness she feels. “I can feel her. Moving.”

His eyes light up, tears filling them just as they did hers. She feels his hand twitch on her stomach, applying the smallest amount of pressure.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to yet,” she says with a bit of sadness. “If I weren’t so focused, I might have missed it myself. But she’s there. Growing.”

“She?” he asks shakily, his happiness not the least bit dampened at not experiencing the movements himself.

“Today, yes, _she_ ,” she answers, getting lost in the daydreams of what their child may look like. “Tomorrow we might be having a boy,” Some women knew exactly what they were having, from the moment they learned of their pregnancy. They just felt it in their bones. She’d known, with Rhaego. Then again, all she had wanted was a boy. A boy to make her husband proud, not a girl to make him angry. But Jon isn’t like Drogo, and all she wishes for now is a healthy, living baby to cradle and call her own. She truly doesn’t know this time, nor does she care. Some days she pictured a boy, other days it was a girl, and both images made her heart swell with love. “Do you have a preference?”

“Not at all,” he says, kissing her forehead. “I just can’t wait to finally hold her…or him.”

She lays her head on his shoulder, trying to remain quiet and still, hoping she’ll feel it again. She’s blessed with the smallest flutter.

“Thank you, Jon.” She says quietly against his skin.

He understands what she’s thanking him for immediately. “I won’t take all the credit. If I’m not mistaken, you were a very…active participant.”

She chuckles, lightly slapping his arm. “Still…I thought I would never have a child of my own. I can’t help but be thankful that it’s with you. I couldn’t imagine a better man to be the father of my child.”

He smiles nervously. “You might not think so in a few months’ time. I don’t know a thing about children.”

“Neither do I,” she assures him. “We’ll learn together.”

They both fall silent, neither making a move to rise and ready for the day. They would be interrupted soon enough, there was no need to rush it.

She begins to fall back into the warm embrace of sleep, of unconsciousness. It’s preferable to thinking about what would happen when they pull away from each other and go about their separate tasks. Jon would be with Sam, she knew. He would tell Arya. She would tell Grey Worm, maybe Yara and Prince Quentyn. The existence of their miracle would be known to others and she didn’t know if she was ready. Regardless, she wouldn’t be able to hide beneath thick fabrics for much longer, even those she didn’t want to know would know, and she’d rather have precautions set in place before that happens.

A knock at the door interrupts her peaceful fall, and she opens her eyes with a sad sigh.

“One moment, please,” Jon calls out as she reluctantly pulls herself away from him, rising from the bed to pull her quickly pull her gown over her unclothed body, her cheeks warming when she feels his eyes on her.

When she’s covered, she turns around to find his sitting up on the edge of the bed, trousers on, still watching her. Want dominates his eyes, but his smile is soft, his brow smoothed in contentment. He beckons her over and she goes to stand between his thighs, watching through blurred vision as he places a kiss over her stomach. He does it every morning, in some fashion, but today feels different. Her child reacts to her rapidly beating heart and moves again, making the moment even more perfect.

He stands, placing a kiss on her lips before he walks over to let Merri in. She goes to sit at her dressing table and begins to brush out the ends of her hair.

In the mirror, she can she Jon steal away into the dressing room, and she talks quietly with her handmaid about nothing important. Every morning she feels a wave of sadness pass through her in these moments of normalcy, accompanied by a shocking grief, as if she’s just realized that Missandei will never join her again. They’d had a routine, Missandei would help her and ask her about the future, then she would help Missandei and ask about Grey Worm. She wasn’t close to Merri, maybe she would be one day, but right now all she felt was the absence of her dear friend. Her sister.

Maybe if she closes her eyes, she could almost pretend. Merri’s fingers weaving her hair into braids would start to feel like Missandei’s. If she was dedicated enough, she could feel the presence of her oldest friend and most loyal supporter just outside her doors, protecting her, waiting to offer her council whenever she needs it. She can’t pretend, though. She can only remember. If she remembers them, the past, so hopeful and proud and strong, she forgets the present, where she has her love and her child. She isn’t alone anymore, Jon promises she won’t ever be again, but she still feels it sometimes. A different kind of loneliness, one that comes with missing someone who’s no longer there, one that can’t be warmed by the presence of something else. She doesn’t want to feel it, though, she only wants to be happy. And for that, she feels guilty. She wants to mourn, but she won’t let herself. It would only bring back her anger, anger at everything and everyone who had played a part in their deaths and her isolation, intentional or not, and she didn’t want to feel that again. She was doing better; she couldn’t look back.

“I’ll be back in soon; do you have any requests?”

His voice interrupts her grief and she quickly focuses her eyes on his reflection, needing to feel the happiness again. “Anything but eggs,” she says, smiling. “And if you see him, please tell Grey Worm I wish to speak to him before I leave the Keep…do you want to be with me when I tell him? It’s our news.”

“I will be if you wish it.”

She thinks on his words, easily coming to a decision. “It’s alright, I’ll do it on my own. He’ll no doubt go and speak with you right after, anyway. I won’t be surprised if I have ten more guards following me around by the end of the day.”

“Ten more isn’t nearly enough,” he teases. “Do you want to be there when I tell Arya?”

Again, her decision is easily made. “No. I know she won’t be happy, but I don’t want to see it.” If she were there and Arya looked at her stomach in disgust or contempt, she wouldn’t be able to hold her tongue. She would lash out and she didn’t want to do that to Jon, she couldn’t hurt him like that. And she wouldn’t give Arya what she wanted. She also wouldn’t be able to hold back her heartbreak. Her child wouldn’t have a lot of family. Her and Jon. Ser Davos, perhaps her new friends, would love her child, but they weren’t people who could tell them stories about dragons and wolves. If Arya shunned her child, her brother’s child, simply because of Daenerys, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. She wouldn’t give Arya that, either.  

He gives her look of understanding, followed by one of sadness. She frowns, turning in her chair as Merri ties of the bottom of her braid. After, she quietly slips away to find Dany something to wear. “I’ll be there if you want me to be, Jon.”

“No, it’s not you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry for my family. All of them. I truly never thought they’d make you feel the way they have. If I did, I would have kept you away to save you from the hurt.”

“You expected more of them…I understand. You don’t need to apologize on their behalf. Have whatever connection with them that you can, Jon. Even if they never wish to be in the same room with me, I don’t want you to forget that they’re your family, too.”

Part of her wishes that he would forget his siblings and the trouble they seemed to bring, but she knows the loneliness well, and she doesn’t want him to feel it if he doesn’t have to. So long as she and Jon felt that they weren’t a threat, she would tolerate their presence in his life.

He shakes his head at her answer, his lips pulling up in a quick half-smile. “You never cease to amaze me.”

\---------------

“Grey Worm said he’d wait for you in the courtyard.” he says, rising from the table.

They’d just finished their meal, Jon eating a great deal, telling her he was starved since she ate most of his supper. She only laughed and reminded him that it was partially his fault, as he had also been a _very_ _active participant_.

Their morning was going well, and she was savoring it, knowing it would be dampened as soon as she left the Keep, knowing it would be because of her. Her actions. She could feel the nagging feelings pull at her, and she hates giving into them as much as she hates ignoring them. She doesn’t know what she wants to feel, only that she knew she wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, she never does. All she could do was wait for something to win out and hope she could withstand whatever torment it brought her. She feels confident that she could, though, as long as she thinks of him and her child, but she knows guilt would accompany those thoughts. _I don’t deserve this._

She rises with him, dressed warmly and simply for the day, her recently tailored clothing already feeling a bit tighter. “I hope it goes well with your sister.”

“I do too.”

They walk out of their chambers together, and Jon takes her hand as they make their way down the corridor. She smiles at her guards, silently thanking them for protecting what was dearest to her.

As expected, Grey Worm is there, occupied by the map of King’s Landing on the table. Jon’s lifts their hands and places a kiss on hers. “I’ll see you at midday?”

She nods and watches as he leaves, feeling he nerves bubble in her stomach as she realizes that someone who hates her would soon know about her child. _Would she confront me_?

“My Queen, you wanted a word?”

She looks over and nods, motioning him to stay at the table. As she walks over, she feels a smile pulling at her lips. Has she ever shared good news before? Has she ever had the chance to look at someone and crave their excitement about something she had to say? She didn’t expect her stoic friend to so much as smile, but she hopes to see happiness in his eyes, to see pride.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking at the map on the table, where he’d been moving around pieces representing her men.

“I am putting more men in and around the castle while our guests are here. The King thinks it necessary.”

“And you? Do you think it’s necessary?”

She worries about his answer, he observed all day, looking for threats. He was more thorough that Jon, she was sure, as it was one of his primary duties. If he fears something, she wouldn’t be able to help look over her shoulder more frequently.

“I see no immediate threat, but if the King believes there could be one in the future, I will take the necessary measures to ease his worry.”

She can hear the respect in his voice. He was always respectful, but Grey Worm’s respect was hard to gain. She thinks Jorah had it, and Ser Barristan. Tyrion never quite got there.

“I think it may be necessary as well, especially in the coming months,” she says, and he looks up at her with comical concern. “I’m pregnant. Four moons, we think, or a little more.”

He stares at her blankly for a brief moment before a soft smile breaks out. His eyes reward her with that happiness and pride. “Does the King know?”

“He does. We learned together.”

He nods, hard and determined. “We will keep you safe, my Queen. And your child.”

“I know you will,” she replies. “I didn’t tell you as your Queen, I told you as your friend. I do hope you’ll be part of our child’s life.” He gets a look of sadness on his face, of heartbreak. He’s thinking of her. Missandei. 

She waits, not wanting to pry, but he doesn’t say what he’s thinking. “I would be honored to protect your child…Are you happy?”

“I could only be happier if they were here with us.” She doesn’t need to elaborate; he feels their absence as well.

“We’ll be happy for them, then,” he says, emotion breaking through his usually composed voice. “She would be excited for you.”

“And Jorah would be twice as protective.” She replies, tears blurring her vision. She blinks them away. She wasn’t ready.

He coughs, gathering himself, before seriousness takes over his features. “Who else knows?”

“Merri and Ser Davos. Jon will tell Arya today. I think I’ll tell Yara and Quentyn if they join me for supper tonight.”

“We’ll sweep the areas you go to from now on remove anything that could be used as a weapon. I’ll have more guards posted outside your chambers. The windows, too.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary; Jon has his sword.”

“He will be asleep, not alert. We are protecting the King, too.”

She concedes easily enough, she’s never truly considered the possibility of Jon’s life in danger. He always has his sword, but he was most vulnerable in their chambers. Unarmed…and usually undressed. He would never sleep again if someone managed to sneak past their guards one night.

“Thank you, my friend,” she says, gently placing her hand on his arm. “I appreciate your efforts and I know Jon does as well.”

He gives her that smile again. “Of course, my Queen. You deserve to be happy.”

She’s touched by his words, but the smile she returns feels more like a grimace. _No, I don’t deserve this at all._

_\---------------_

“How will you continue to care for those who can no longer care for themselves? Who have no one to care for them?”

“Daenerys plans on building more permanent residences for them. Care will be available at all hours of the day, should they need it.” Throughout the morning, he’s been sure to credit her for every idea she’s implemented. Her efforts will not be ignored by people who are determined to dislike her. If Sam hates her still, he’ll do so with the knowledge that she’s trying to right her wrongs.

“And if they can’t afford it?”

“We’ll work with each individual resident and figure out a cost. These residences will be run by the crown, any expenses that won’t be covered by rent will be covered by our coffers.”

He nods thoughtfully. His discomfort has slowly been fading from his face for the last few hours, instead being replaced by curiosity. He hasn’t willingly asked about her, though. He only listens to what Jon offers.

“Are they a prioritized project?”

“They are. The orphanages, too, though those are almost complete. The citizens who can care for themselves will be temporary shelters for a while longer. Two streets down, they’re beginning construction on the markets, so people can return to their trades.”

“On my way into the city I saw hundreds of people camped outside with the armies, do you know why?”

“They wish to leave, find work somewhere else.”

“That’s understandable.”

Jon almost shoots him a glare but reminds himself to be patient. He told her it would be difficult, but he needs to tell himself that as well.

They walk a little deeper into the streets busy with construction, Jon explaining what each building will be, pointing out what would be the orphanages and the sick houses, schoolhouses, and familial residences. He explains how they’re taking down names of the people who are seeking employment, writing down their trade and placing them on temporary duties until they can return to the work they’re experienced in.

Sam is nearly unreadable as he absorbs the information, though Jon can see well enough that he’s impressed with what’s been done.

“How are the people? They seem…unhappy but not angry.”

Jon thinks so as well, it confuses him. He’d been dreading the mobs, the crowds of people gathering around his love to shout crude and hurtful things, but they never came.

“They are. Angry, I mean. I think they haven’t acted on it because they have food and clothes…things they didn’t have when Cersei ruled.”

“I think it’s fear. They won’t act on their anger when they know what can happen.” He grits his teeth, holds his tongue, tells himself that there is truth to Sam’s words. “But still, you should have more guards around you, it doesn’t take a mob.”

“I don’t need guards, I have Longclaw. Besides, she spends most days with the people, crowds of them, and there’s been no indications of violence. And she is well protected,” Sam stays quiet, wisely, because if he said anything that downplayed the importance of her life, Jon wouldn’t be able to resist lashing out at him. “I won’t lose her, Sam.”

Sam accepts his words with a brief nod of acknowledgment, and then asks he if could take a break from walking and see if he would be of some help in the sick houses. Jon bids him goodbye and continues his walk alone, scanning the crown for the familiar figure of his sister. She doesn’t hide anymore, watch in the shadows, but she makes herself scarce. When Jon spots her, he knows it’s because she spotted him first, and allows him to find her.

He gives her a nervous smile, making himself vulnerable, and she gets a serious look on her face.

She walks over briskly, her hand flexing over the pommel of Needle, ready to fight. He hates it, knowing that she knows he isn’t physically hurt, and the only person who could truly hurt him emotionally is Dany.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. Do you have time to talk?”

She nods, and he leads her though the streets, feeling the tension grow as she realizes what he needs requires absolute privacy. He would have walked her into the keep if they were close to it. They reach the outskirts of the construction, but he goes further still, into the streets where the only signs of life are the Queen’s Unsullied and Dothraki patrolling area.

Once he’s satisfied, they’re far enough, he takes a seat on the steps of an incaved building, and looks up to her, hoping she’ll see the emotions that he knows is swimming in his eyes and be his sister before anything else.

She furrows her brows in worry, taking her hand of her sword and taking a seat next to him.

“Jon?” her voice is small, soft, the tension that constantly revolves around them fading.

“Daenerys is pregnant.” He says it quietly, unable to stop the excited smile pulling at his lips, though he keeps it from breaking completely.

He watches her closely, seeing the emotions flicker through her eyes. Surprise, confusion, anger, understanding, sympathy. The happiness he wanted doesn’t show, or it’s so fleeting he wasn’t able to name it.

“How long have you known?”

“Few weeks now, she’s at least four moons gone.”

“Is she trying to hide it?”

“She is, but we can’t for much longer, the babe seems to be growing by the hour.” This time, he doesn’t hold back the smile on his face as he remembers the blissfulness of that morning. He swears he could see every minute change to her body. He could certainly feel it, he traces the curve of her belly every night as he falls asleep, and every morning as he wakes, and he spends countless hours memorizing the curves of her form with his hands, his lips. He noticed every change. He remembers the look on her face as she said she could feel their child moving, the love so pure and full that he couldn’t even feel saddened by the fact that he couldn’t feel it, her joy seemed enough for the both of them.

He’s brought back to the present when she abruptly turns away, a scowl on her face. He lets her sit with what she feels, calms what she feels, as he works at reminding himself that it didn’t matter what she thought of it, _he_ was happy beyond measure. As close as they were, or used to be, she wouldn’t dampen his joy with her opinions. He wouldn’t feel guilty for it, and he wouldn’t allow her to tell him that his child was a mistake. He would hear none of it because his child was a miracle, a blessing.

When she turns back, her face is blank, though her eyes are a little sad and, to his confusion, somewhat relieved.

“Tell me truthfully, Jon, are you worried for your child’s safety?”

The question confuses him, he’s unable grasp how she’d arrived at the idea. “ _What?”_

Instead of answering she continues. “Are you worried about what she’ll do? Is that why you’re marrying her? To keep your child safe?” Her questions spill out her mouth in a rush in earnest, as if she’s looking for reassurance.

He sees red, of course he does, that she would even assume Daenerys would hurt her own child. If she’d spoken to her for even five minutes, she would understand how dearly she holds that title, the _Mother of Dragons_. They would hear the wistfulness in her voice, the sadness, along with the pride she has in her sons. But she never did.

He glares at her, too furious to speak, worried he’d say something he’d later regret. She holds his gaze with her own, though less than a minute passes before she cowers just a little and tears her eyes away to stare blankly at the street.

He speaks then, the hard beat of his heart cooling to a tempered ire. “She would _never_ hurt our child.”

“You can’t blame me; she’s hurt children before.”

“Please…stop,” he says, tired of arguing about the same things with her. He can’t deny what Daenerys has done. The truths he knows are contradicted in every way by what she did, but he knows deep in his chest that he isn’t wrong. He can only articulate what he feels in so many ways.

She stops that path and continues down a new one. “You haven’t answered all my questions.”

“If you must know, I asked her to marry me before we knew. Tyrion had brought up the possibility of marriage alliances with the other Kingdoms and I couldn’t let that happen. She’s mine, my Queen, the mother of my child, and she’ll be my wife.”

To his surprise she cracks a smile, albeit a vacant one. “You asked her out of jealousy? You never seemed the type.”

“I asked her because I love her. But his words were motivation. I wished I’d asked her sooner. I would have loved to marry her in the North. In the Godswood.” She would have been a heartbreakingly lovely sight, her skin pink with the cold, her lips as red as the leaves of the weirwood tree, though far more beautiful.

“The North wouldn’t have liked that.”

“I would have been the Warden of the North marrying the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If they’d been upset, they would have proved to be even more foolish and stubborn than I’d previously thought.”

“Northern loyalty used to be something you admired.”

“Northern loyalty used to be something to be proud of. Now it’s just a way to excuse prejudice and hostility.”

“You aren’t with her because of the babe, then?” she asks in defeat, steering the conversation away from Northern faults.

“No, I’m not.”

“You think she’ll be a good mother?”

“She already loves our babe more than anything else in the world. And I would do _anything_ for them. Anything to keep them safe and happy.” _Even if it means turning away from you, from the Starks._

“You are happy, then? You don’t feel trapped?” she asks, searching his eyes for something. Maybe proof that he’s lying, but she won’t find anything close to it.

“I’m happy. I never imagined I’d have a child of my own.” He says, his excitement at the impending new title bleeding into his words.

She smiles back, this time sad and tired. “You’ll be a good father, Jon.”

He knows it’s all he’ll get. It doesn’t feel like approval, not that he needs it, but it feels like acceptance. And more importantly, it doesn’t feel like a threat.

He tentatively tries to prod some sort of happiness from her, inviting her to remain his sister. Reminding her that having a new family doesn’t mean forgetting the old. “I hope you’ll teach them how to fight. They’ll have Needle of their own as soon as they can walk.”

It works, just a little. “Perhaps I can.” She hasn’t decided what she thinks, he figures, but she’s trying. It touches him more than he thought it would. Enough to be vulnerable and share his fears.

“I _can’t_ lose them, Arya. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I have no happiness in my future without her.” He would have nothing without her, nothing to believe in and nothing to love.  Even the thought crippled him, took the air from his chest, filled him with abject terror.

She sighs, loudly, almost angrily. Almost resolved. “She won’t be harmed Jon. No one can’t get within ten feet of her without passing through her armed guards.”

“It’s always a possibility, Arya.” He whispers, still stuck in his fear.

“It won’t happen.” He knows she says it to appease his worry, but the hopeful part of him hears it as a promise.

He nods, taking a shaky breath, trying to make his body relax from the self-inflicted fear.

Before he can calm down, a familiar guard, Yellow Flea, runs up to them, and he immediately becomes panicked. He rushes to his feet, his hand already on Longclaw, ready to execute whoever was a threat to her. “Where is she?” his own voice sounds wild to him, controlled and panicked all at once.

He feels Arya come up to his side, a predatorial tension rolling off her.

Yellow Flea answers immediately, sensing Jon’s frenzied state. “The Queen is safe. Grey Worm wishes to speak to the both of you. Immediately.”

He barely registers what he says beyond his reassurance. The ringing in his ears fade, his grip loosens, but he still needs to see her.

He follows Yellow Flea in silence, eyes forward. He knows he’s probably a frightening sight, but he doesn’t care. His only goal is to get to her. He feels Arya beside him, matching his pace, though her eyes keep flickering up to him, checking on him.

When they reach the open courtyard, he searches for her, his eyes pulled to her almost immediately. She’s standing with Ser Davos, looking confused and worried. He pushes past Yellow Flea, ignoring his sister, and takes long strides to his destination. When he’s close, when she spots him, he’s nearly stopped by the ring of men around her, but thankfully they recognize him in time and allow him to push past. _Good,_ he thinks, _I would cut through anyone to get to her._

“Hey!” he hears Arya yell in protest when they block her, though he doesn’t care, he’s soon in front of her, grabbing at her hands to hold them tightly, running his eyes over her for any signs of injury or distress. He knows he won’t find anything; he knows she’s alright, but his mind won’t accept it until he sees for himself.  

“Jon, what’s wrong?” she asks, confused by his actions as well.

“Nothing I just…I panicked.”

She gives him a look of understanding and leans close. “We’re alright.”

He nods, and she looks over his shoulder, to Arya.

“Do you want to let her pass?” She asks.

There are many questions in that one; _Does she know? Is she a threat? Do you trust her?_

He nods.

At her signal, the guards let Arya pass, and Jon turns to see her watching Daenerys closely, curiously. He sees a hint of resentment as well.

Daenerys stares back for only a moment before she looks back up to Jon. “Do you know what he wants? Blue Fly only said he needed to speak to us.”

“No, but it sounds urgent.”

Just then, Grey Worm approaches them. “Our scouts have returned,” he says, getting straight to the point. They spotted banners three days out. Stark banners.”

Just as it was fading, the fury returns tenfold, he feels Dany squeeze his hands tightly. She’s just as upset. He looks to her and sees that she’s thinking the same as he is. _What is Sansa playing at?_

“How many?” Daenerys asks flatly.

“A small host, My Queen.”

“If it’s a battle she wants—” Jon starts, already planning their defenses. Sansa’s arrest.

To his surprise, Grey Worm shakes his head. “Not a battle. Not enough men for a battle.”

“What exactly did the scouts see?” Daenerys asks impatiently.

“They estimate less than two hundred men.”

“Any carts of supplies?” If Sansa came to make a display of power, he didn’t think he could ever think of her as family again.

“A few carts, not enough for a large amount of supplies if they did bring any. Mainly chests, supplies for the journey. There were also two carriages, presumably for Lady Sansa.”

“Sansa and Bran,” Arya says suddenly and they both turn to look at her. “Sansa may have been raised spoiled, but she wouldn’t take up two carriages now. And Bran’s chair takes up a fair amount of space. He would need his own.”

He looks back to Dany, the apprehension on her features upsetting him. Apprehension looks close to worry, to doubt.

“What do you what to do?” she asks, her look telling him that she would honor her promise of letting him deal with his sister.

“We’ll go on as planned. We marry tomorrow and we’re crowned immediately after. We’ll hold off the feasts until the day she arrives. Whatever she’s expecting, whatever she’s been telling the North, we’ll subvert it as best we can.” his words are firm, confident, though deep down he _is_ nervous. It matters not, though. His gut is telling him to treat Sansa as the minuscule threat she is and nothing more. He’ll welcome her as family, treat her as such, but she’ll be addressing the crowned King and Queen of Westeros when she arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably building up the Sansa drama way too much but it's fun ;)
> 
> When I started this fic I told myself I was only doing Jon and Dany's pov (I think there is actually evidence somewhere in the early chapters) but as it's getting longer and the world is expanding a bit more outside the two of them, I wanted to get the thoughts of an outside person, for myself as much as the fic. And I got a two for one deal when I decided to throw in the conversation with Davos. TBH, even as I was writing the first few chapters, I questioned why Davos would stay and support a woman who burned children alive when he'd been so heartbroken by Princess Shireen . And we can't forget that he was still friendly with Tyrion after Tyrion killed his son. You know, with wildfire. My answer to that is that he's just a really good guy, who sees the underdogs and the misunderstood and sees the good in them. I hope I explained his involvement well enough and I hope i did Arya justice! 
> 
> As for Sam...he isn't my favorite character but I'm trying to work with what I got. And he ended up annoying me in my chapter but baby steps. 
> 
> Also, if you have an opportunity to take a dig at the stupidity that was bran the broken, you do.
> 
> Next chapter, wedding, coronation, Sansa-caused tension. Hopefully in less than a month. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is mostly fluff. And angst. Angsty fluff. I figured I'd given the lovebirds events a chapter of their own. 
> 
> Comments and criticisms welcome :)

She was breathless, slick with sweat, and only momentarily satisfied. Jon’s quick rasps were hot on her neck, one hand still gripping her thigh, the other moving lazily between them, pulling the last of her climax from her body.

With one hand she massages the back of his neck, tugging at his curls the way she knows he enjoys. She’s holding herself upright with the other, her palm pressing hard into the wood of the table underneath her. It isn’t the most comfortable position, but she’d been overcome with want, and he’d met it eagerly. She hadn’t had the patience to make it to the bed.

When they’ve both gotten control of their breathing, he lifts his head to kiss her deeply. She can taste herself on his lips, and flashes of his face between her thighs play in her mind, making her feel hot and ready all over again. She would have him as many times as she could this night, until her need was sated. He’s still inside her, hard and eager to continue, but she doesn’t want him to pull away from their embrace just yet.

“ _Dany._ ” He growls, ripping his lips from hers, moving both hands to curl his fingers around her thighs, feeling her body react to her vivid thoughts. She pulls his lips back to hers, his low tone tightening the coil in deep in her belly all over again.

She didn’t know why she was suddenly so hungry for him, not that she wasn’t always, but this felt even wild and out of her control, and desperate. Or, she did know, but it was a number of things. Small things that added up to a ball of emotion on the edge of bursting until she grabbed his hand and pulled him violently into their chambers.

After their impromptu gathering in the middle of the city, she and Jon had decided to take their midday meal. They needed talk. The news of Sansa’s impending arrival made her feel anxious, and more nervous than she cared to admit. And Jon had been seething with anger, his arms flexed under her touch, eager to take out his frustrations on _something_. They had both needed a few moments to gather themselves.

As they sat, as privately as they with the guards around them, Jon told her of Arya’s reaction to her pregnancy. Dany had known as soon as their eyes met earlier that Arya knew. And she wasn’t happy. Daenerys could see the girl’s eyes brimming with hate. To her surprise, she didn’t feel a lick of anger at it. She knew Arya would hate her for it, she didn’t care. But she _did_ care about Arya’s feeling to her baby. If she had so much as glanced down her stomach with the same strong emotion, she would have felt the hate shining her own eyes, her only way to defend her child from judgment. She even felt relief at the hate. Hate meant Arya knew it to be true, accepted it, and understood that Jon was with her, devoted to her, fully.

The anger came after, though, as Jon told her how their conversation went. The sadness in his voice was enough to stir her ire. All he wanted was for his sister to see his joy at impending fatherhood and be happy for him, and she couldn’t even do that. She’d once felt jealous at the love Jon shared with his siblings, hurt that Viserys couldn’t love her the same way, but now she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine having that kind of love for so long only feel it weaken when she dared to be happy with someone they disapproved of. Her anger peaked when he told her what Arya had asked him.

Arya must think her truly evil if she thought she could harm her own child. _I should make her attend more meetings…and dinners. Just to make her see how wrong she is. Make her see how much I love my family more than anything in the world, how I love Jon despite how much I dislike her. The ‘evil queen’ can show her what unconditional love looks like._ She tried to understand Arya’s concern, but any attempts at it diminished as soon as Jon continued. She had asked Jon if he was only with her for the sake of his child’s safety, she _hoped_ Jon was only with her for the sake of his child’s safety. For a fleeting second, her insecurities had gotten the best of her, and the irrational fear splashed across her features, making Jon snap at her. _Don’t,_ he said, gripping her hands tightly in his own, no longer caring that they were surrounded by people with prying eyes. Arya’s words had sprung a new fear in her then, too; that Jon could take their child and leave her. With Arya’s help it was possible that he could, and Dany knew the girl would help him in a heartbeat. It was irrational, Jon would never be so cruel, and so she didn’t voice that fear, she pushed it from her thoughts immediately, but they left a residual echo that began the pile of anxiety-ridden thoughts. Partially appeased she asked in a quiet voice if any part of him feared she would harm their child. _Don’t let her make you doubt yourself,_ he replied. _If there is anyone more protective of our child than me, it’s you. I know that, and more importantly, you know that._ She supposed he lit the fire in her then with his reassuring words, his absolute belief in _them_.

They spoke of Sansa next, both of them irritated and suspicious at her actions. They would treat her well, give her accommodations suited for the highest title she would bear, _Wardeness of the North._ They knew she would demand Northern Independence, and they both agreed it would be detrimental to the North. Jon dismissed Bran’s presence, insisting that his brother didn’t care for politics, didn’t care about titles and kings and queens, she didn’t know Bran well enough to insist otherwise. Sansa was their concern, and the source of her anxiety. Sansa had worked to tear them apart, shared Jon’s secret with Tyrion in the hopes that Daenerys would be overthrown in favor of him. And her plans had nearly been successful. It’s clear to her that Sansa wants her dead, and she needed to know if the woman was determined enough to try it again in some fashion. She wouldn’t be nearly as worried if she weren’t pregnant, she would be more dismissive of the Sansa’s intentions, unfazed by them. But she _was_ pregnant, and the delicate life in her womb made her so cautious it bordered on paranoia. She knew Jon felt the same, though instead of being consumed by paranoia, he was dancing on the edge of an aggressive protectiveness that endeared her completely.

Aside from any threat to their baby, she was nervous about how Jon would act. His family would be here, the Starks of Winterfell. The family he grew up with, the family he admired, and the family he’d nearly chosen over her. He did, for a time. She didn’t mean to be so insecure, but she wasn’t able to help herself, insecurity prepared her for the worst. As much as she told herself he wouldn’t be swayed by his siblings, a small voice whispered that he could be. Jon had read her like a book, of course, and his patience was as thin as paper; he snapped at her again, part of his anger directed at her. _Do you have no faith in me at all?_ he asked roughly. Of course, she did, she had all the faith in the world, it was _her_.  _Sansa can say what she likes, but nothing will change. You can chain me to our bed the entire time she’s here if it makes you feel any better and I’d enjoy every moment if it._ He stoked the fire with those words.

The rest of their day was a blur, when they separated again, she carried on with her duties, all the while burning for something she couldn’t name yet. They’d both agreed to sup as often as they could with their allies while they were here, to better build the relationships with them, no matter how she longed to be back in their bed, feeding him fruit from her own plate and snatching the meat off of his. They’d extended the invitation to everyone they were hosting, but again, only Yara and Prince Quentyn joined them. She knew Jon was a little hurt as Sam’s refusal in particular, and she grew to dislike the man a little more for it. She would need to speak to him alone, if she could. She couldn’t expect Jon have those unpleasant confrontations of defending her all time. She needed to speak for herself, show them herself.

During the meal, they shared the news with their companions, and neither seemed completely surprised. Still, she and Jon beamed under their celebratory congratulations. Of course, jokes were made for the rest of the evening, all at Jon’s expense. Yara kept pushing for information about their activities in the bedroom and offering up advice on different positions they should try, just to see Jon turn red with embarrassment. The Prince kept poking at how quickly their child was conceived and joked that Jon needed advice on how to last longer during their couplings, and he offered up a plethora of information that, while she laughed, she also stored away to revisit later, eager to experience anything and everything with her love. Jon grew a little bolder with his drink and began meeting the Prince’s quips with his own, which in turn had made her blush. He also took to leaning over and promising her in a whispered voice that everyone heard, that he would prove every single one of the Quentyn’s theories wrong. The fire was blazing by the time she swallowed down the last of her drink, and she knew her lust was visible to everyone. Yara took mercy on her and rose before dessert was brought out, saying she wanted to visit the Greyjoy camps and drink with her men. She invited the Prince, who took the hint and agreed immediately. Dany thanked her quietly as they rose and took Jon’s hand in her own, already tugging him in the direction of their rooms.

After that, everything was a blur. She was pushed against the door as soon as it closed and his mouth had crushed against hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise. They had moved from the door when she started shoving him back, intent on getting him onto the bed, but his patience must have been thinner than hers because he’d gripped her waiste tightly and spun them, walking her back until the table hit her bottom. He’d lifted her up, moving his hands to pull her legs apart and settling between her thighs. She could remember the tear of fabric, and grunts of frustration in between their rough kisses when neither could remove anything completely without pulling apart. So, they didn’t, he hiked up her skirts, tore down her trousers and small clothes, she untied his and wrapped her hand around him, stroking him a few times before he pushed her hand away and fell to his knees, kissing his way up her legs, teasing her, until she nearly fell apart at the first stoke of his tongue. He’s kissed and sucked and licked until her moans turned to silent gasps and her whole body was pulsing. As soon as she reached her peak, he stopped his attentions and moved up to slide into her one blissful, smooth thrust before she could complain at the loss.

Even now, with all their layers still separating them, Jon held her tightly, moving his calloused palms along the length of her uncovered legs.

“We should go the bed,” she whispers into his ear. “I’m not done with you yet.” She wasn’t, she needs to love him, possess him, leave her mark on him until he never wanted to leave her side. Until any thought of it was erased from his mind, even the ones that found it a ridiculous idea. It probably was already, but she wants to be sure, for herself. She could ask and he could say everything she wants to hear, but she needs to pull it from his body with her own. Words could be empty; actions held all the truth in them.

He hums in agreement and steps back, slipping out of her, lifting his lips from her neck, and taking his hands from her thighs. She feels cold at the loss, a displeased frown playing on her lips until he holds out his hands to help her off the table. She takes them and their connection fills the air again, as if it never left. She winces as she moves off the table, her muscles deliciously sore.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Did it _sound_ like you hurt me?” She doesn’t want him to hold back the next time, she doesn’t want gentle caresses or soft kisses. Those touches held love in them, but they didn’t hold the desperate desire she needed to feel.

She starts pushing him backwards to the bed roughly, distracting him from his unnecessary worry. They fumble with their clothes, stripping each other quickly.

“Tell me if I do.” He mumbles, accepting her answer.

This time is even more unrestrained. As soon as his legs hit the foot of the bed, she commands him to lay down. He listens without hesitation, and watches through hooded lids as she kisses her way down his torso, paying special attention to the scars that had taken him away from this world, before taking him into her mouth. She relishes in the control, feeling proud every time he grunts in pleasure, or hisses her name. He was hers, and he would be hers for the rest of their lives. No other woman would ever do this him, only her. No one would ever take him away from her.

As much as she wants him to finish between her lips, he pulls her off abruptly before he does, and stands up. He switches their positions and spins her around, pausing for her approval. He always asks, he doesn’t need to anymore, she probably wouldn’t freeze up like she did the first time, but he asks, and her heart always warms at his care. As soon as she whispers _yes,_ she’s pushed onto the bed, and she grips the sheets in anticipation.

He doesn’t make her wait long before he aligns himself at her entrance and slides into her slowly, forcing her to feel every inch of the aching pressure, a long, drawn out moan escaping her lips.

He leans down and places a kiss on her shoulder. “ _I love you_.” He breathes.

“ _I love you_.” She replies in an impatient whimper.

He hears her plea and the tender moment in over.

He finally gives her what she wants. He’s as wild as a wolf and as strong as a dragon. She’s sure his fingers are going to leave bruises, she’s sure the backs of her thighs will be sore tomorrow, she’s sure he’s just as determined on claiming her as she is him. The slap of skin dominates the room, loud and violent and wet. _Yes, yes, harder, deeper, more_ she moans, though it’s muffled by the bedding. Her cries raise in volume as he drives forward, seemingly on a mission to make her wake the whole keep.

Afterwards, he’s gentle, leaving a trail of wet kisses up her spine, whispering his love against her skin. She welcomes the change, lust had filled her entirely as he thrusted inside her but here, there was room for love.

Still, she isn’t satisfied. She’s pleased and sore and exhausted, but her mind won’t let her rest. She wants more, needs more reassurance. Tomorrow they would be married, but husbands can set aside wives, and kings can set aside queens. Rhaegar, her brother and his father, had seemingly done both. Elia wasn’t queen, but she would have been, and he set her aside for Lyanna Stark. Logically, she knows it wouldn’t be so simple and she knows Jon would never think to do so, but the fear is still there, mocking her. She thinks it will until the moment Sansa arrives, and then she’ll chase it away with a shameful laugh that she could ever think that of Jon. At least, she hopes that will happen. She hopes Sansa’s presence don’t feed further into her fears. She hopes Jon’s actions are different than they were when he had last reunited with his family.

Sansa is still days away, though, and she still has hours.

“I should light the fire before you catch a chill.” he says from above her.

She smiles, her eyes closed. She could fall asleep right now, the weight of him over her like a comforting warmth. One that held the promise of perpetual love.

“That would be nice, you can’t fail in your Kingly duties on the first day, Jon Snow. It doesn’t reflect well on you.”

He chuckles, pulling her up, and she turns around to face him. They share a smile, still basking in the calmness after the urgency. She knows her face reflects his; completely content and thoroughly cherished. She briefly wonders why she can’t just take what he gives her willingly and be happy with it. She wonders why she’s suddenly so insecure in her role in their partnership now. Why she’s giving Sansa that power over her. She thinks she knows the answer.  

“Send for the dessert as well.” She says suddenly, unwilling to continue down the path. She can look in his eyes now and see the unbridled truth without feeling the urge to seek out any falsehood. Only that morning she could do so with ease. Now, almost back to that bliss, she feels horrible for allowing herself to be so affected and shaken when she had sworn to him and herself that they were immovable.

He laughs at her words. “I’ll see it done my Queen.”

He grabs her robe and wraps it around her shoulders before turning his attention to the fireplace. She sits on the edge of the bed, watching him as he works to start a fire. Still naked, his form is completely free for her to study, and she does. She watches as his back flexes when he moves logs from the iron rack to the growing flames. She follows the sculptured muscles down to his backside, marveling at the perfection of him. She feels her own fire return, and this time her need to claim his as hers is more driven by her inexhaustible attraction to him instead of her self-inflicted fears, though she can feel them still, threatening to return as soon as she gave them an opening.

Once the fire is lit and roaring, he turns to find her staring and smirks at her. “Is the fire to your liking my Queen?”

“I’ve never seen a fire so expertly lit.”

He stands and walks over to her, and her eyes slide down his body to find him recovering already. He reaches her and moves to stand between her legs, a wicked gleam in his eye. 

“My dessert?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

She sees the conflict in his eyes for only a fraction of a second before he resolves to delay his lustful attack in favor of her growing hunger. She’s only half disappointed, her exhaustion, in combination with her properly exercised muscles, have equated to a hunger that was heightened by her growing child. She knows now that the next time would be slower, less crazed, though twice as desperate.

As he pulls on his trousers and walks to the door, she settles into the bed, shedding her robe and climbing under the warm furs, stacking up the pillows so she can lean against them comfortably, and pulling up the sheets to cover her chest. Her body is tired, though her mind is awake, trying to feed her fears, trying to combat her fears, trying to justify them, and trying to discount them. The part of her that believes in _them_ is stronger, and she knows it, though the other part is louder. The other part has more severe consequences and won’t allow her to forget it. She’s protecting herself, but instead of feeling comforted by her unnecessary forethought, she only feels guilty at having the thoughts at all. But isn’t Jon, it’s her.

Her thoughts are broken by the click of the door, and the resounding turn of the lock.

“It might be some minutes before someone comes from the kitchens. I won’t take any chances,” he explains, walking over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, taking her hands lightly into his. He stares at her intently, making the blood rise to her cheeks under his gaze, before he smiles sweetly at her. “We’re getting married tomorrow.” He says softly, a touch of wonder in his words.

“We are.” She replies, finding it just as surreal as he does. It’s something they should have considered before they’d even met. At the very least, it should have been brought up as a possibility when he’d first arrived at Dragonstone. Even if they didn’t love each other then, she knows the love would have come quick and hard. Perhaps everything would have been different, but then again, things might have been exactly the same. He might have still pulled away from her. It might have hurt more to lose a husband, but it also might have been harder for him to pull away.

She feels a tug on her hand, and she focuses her attention on him again rather than the impossibilities.

“We’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He says reassuringly.

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

“About the wedding? Not at all, I’ve never been surer of anything.” His answer comes swiftly, spilling out of his mouth with ease,

“Are you nervous about being King?”

He’s not as quick to answer, but when he does, she feels excitement at the hope in his words. “Not as nervous as I should be, I’m sure. But truthfully, I can’t wait for what comes after.”

“Really?” She feels a girlish smile on her lips. She’s happy that he’s happy, that he doesn’t think of it all as a burden. Seeing him like this, Sansa wouldn’t convince him otherwise.

“Really,” he says back with a small chuckle. “We have so much to do, I know, but things will finally feel like they’re falling into place after so much uncertainty.”

“I hope that’s true.” She replies, dazed, tracing the edge of his thumb with her own. She hopes her own uncertainty will fade after tomorrow; she hopes tomorrow’s events will turn she and Jon into a pillar of strength that not even she could question in moments of insecurity.

Just then, a knock sounds at the door, and he pulls away again. His reassurances calm her, though the other part reminds her that they are just words. She can’t be calmed completely until she sees how he acts in the face of his family.  

He returns before she can fall too deep into her spiral of conflicting emotions, tray in one hand, goblet in the other.

“I had them bring up some warmed milk as well, I know it helps you sleep better.”

Her heart constricts at his care. She never told him it did, he must have seen for himself. _Surely this man will never waver in his love for me._

She eagerly picks up an apple tart from the tray, still warm and soft, and moans quietly as it melts in her mouth.

“You can’t be doing that if you want me to let you eat in peace, Dany,” Jon warns, staring at her mouth.

She laughs, popping the rest of the small treat into her mouth before reaching for another one. “Eat some, I can’t possibly eat all this myself. And it’s too good to let it go to waste.”

He climbs in next her and places the tray between them. “I think if you’re determined enough you can eat all of it with ease.” He says with a smile.

She smiles, finishing off the second tart, before reaching for her goblet. “Probably.”

They finish off the rest of the tray in happy silence. Jon eats slower than she does, and she knows it’s so she can eat most of the tarts. She adores him for it, the care in his small actions. _His child’s health is important to him,_ the other part argues. She feels a sting of tears in her eyes at the hurt of the implication that she blinks away before he catches sight if it. _He loves me._

She moves the tray empty tray from between them and straddles his lap, letting the sheet drop from her body, all the while hating the reason for it, hating that she can’t listen to her logical sense and be content, but eager to continue.

If he’s shocked by her sudden movements, he doesn’t show it, and his hands immediately slide into her hair to pull her in for a kiss. She grazes her fingertips down his chest, feeling herself grow more confident as he moans into her mouth. Their kiss becomes more frantic, both nipping and tugging at each other’s lips.

Her hands reach the ties of his trousers, and she manages to undo them with more skill than she did earlier, and she slides her hand in to wrap her fingers are him. His hands move down, one to grasp her neck, the other to slide down her side, thumb brushing against her breast. She strokes him until he’s completely hard and thick in her hand, and he breaks their mess of kisses to breathe out her name.

The sound fuels her, and she reluctantly pulls away from him to sit up on her knees, enjoying the way his mouth chases hers. _He desires me as much as I desire him._ She cups his face, willing him to keep his eyes on hers, hungry for the connection that she hopes with never fade or be obscured by outside forces. When she sinks down onto him, she savors the way both of his hands move to her waist, the way his fingers dig into her skin, the way he fills her so perfectly. She presses her forehead to his, closing her eyes tight, trying to sear this moment into her brain. When her love is under her, inside her, completely hers. When their child is growing safely in her womb between them. When her family is complete and here in her arms. _This could be one of the last times._ She grits her teeth, angry at herself for shaking the security she feels.

“What’s wrong?” He whispers.

She can’t tell him, can’t hurt him that way. She knows he’ll blame himself for her faults, berate himself for not doing more when he’s already given her everything she’s ever wanted. _More than I deserve._

She shakes her head, as if it’ll make the thoughts go away. “Nothing.”

As she begins to roll her hips, she watches his face, reads his eyes. The lust and warmth and _truth_ in them overwhelm her, and she panics at the thought of never seeing that look again.  She’s not able to contain her worry any longer, and it escapes her in anguished words between her moans. _I love you so much. You’re mine, Jon Snow. Only mine. No one else could ever love you as I do. We belong together. We’re better together. I’m better with you. You can’t ever leave me. I love you, I love you, I love you._

He responds to her pleas, gripping the back of her neck, making her keep her eyes on him instead of retreating into herself. _I’m yours, Dany. Always. No one could ever compare to you. You’re everything. I love you._ She feels herself moving closer to the edge, begging to be pushed over, begging to be held back for just a little longer. She fears what she’ll find at the bottom when she finally falls, and the exhilaration begins to fade.  Her grip on his hair tightens, she moves harder above him, trying to pull him into her, trying to make this a moment she’ll never stop feeling.

When she does tumble over the edge, he follows right after, holding her just as tightly as she is him. She hides her face in his neck, unwilling to meet his eye. She said too much. She’s said similar things before to him, in the heat of passion, in the satisfaction of claiming someone whose body felt like it was made for hers, but never so desperately. Never in words littered with tortured tears and distressed moans of pleasure.

He lets her sit for a moment, catching his own breath, running a hand lightly up and down her back, tracing her spine.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” He finally says, breaking the silence in a raspy, spent voice.

She lets out a sigh against his collarbone. _You can’t help me, it’s not you._ She wants to deal with this on her own, try to understand why she can’t just let herself be happy when he’s telling her all the right things, things that she knows he’d never lie about. Still, she doesn’t want him to panic himself. She doesn’t want him to think he’s failing her.

She lifts her head and looks down at him, his eyes full of concern. Not at all what she had wanted. She had wanted him to feel whole and complete and happy at the end of this night. She had wanted him to know that she could make him feel the same every night for the rest of their lives.

She runs her thumb across his lips, red and bruised from the assault of her own. “A part of me fears that when Sansa and Bran arrive, when your whole family is here with you, it’ll be like it was in Winterfell.” She admits in a hushed whisper.

She expects his frustration, his anger, especially when he’s already reassured her numerous times, but he only gives her patience. “Why do you feel that way?” She feels a hand move to her stomach, to their anchor, what ties them together forever.

“I’m scared, Jon,” she admits, reaching for the hand, feeling his fingers slide between hers and grasping her tightly. “It’s just been you and me. All your plans and visions of the future only mention you and me, as if no one else matters, but they’re all coming. They’re all going to remind you that they do. They’ll try to shatter those plans, push me out and themselves in...”

“…And you think I’ll let them.” He finishes. He isn’t angry, he isn’t even hurt. There’s just understanding, and some relief.

“I’m sorry—” She starts anyway, ready to tell him that he’s been perfect, that he shouldn’t try to change in any way, but he stops her.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s my fault,” He starts. “You wouldn’t be feeling this way if I hadn’t failed you the first time. Failed _us_.” It’s true, she can admit. Her fears were growing from somewhere. “I can’t change the past, no matter how badly I wish I could, but I know exactly what I want in my future, Dany. If I can’t make you believe that with words, I _will_ make you see it with my actions. You won’t ever have another reason to doubt me again.”

“I don’t doubt you,” she says insistently. “I know you love me. I know you’ll never leave our child—"

“ _You_. I will never leave you.” She smiles at him. He caught her slip before she did, caught her trying to soften the blow of such a scenario by telling herself that his child will be what keeps him with her.

“…That you’ll never leave me,” she repeats back slowly. “It just me, Jon. These fears will go away in time, but I can’t stop myself from feeling them now.”

“I hope that’s true,” he says softly. “One day you’ll realize you’re stuck with me, and you’ll hate it when you can’t order me away when I anger you.”

She huffs out a laugh, loving him for accepting her words without arguing against them, without trying to change how she feels. The weight of the guilt over it leaves her as well, immensely relieved that he isn’t hurt by her fears. “Never.”

She moves from his lap, climbing off the bed.

“Where are you going?” He nearly whines.

“The privy,” she says, her mood significantly lightened, though not completely shed of the worry. _Maybe I should always tell him these things, maybe I don’t need to feel them on my own._ “You should blow the candles out.”

After she cleans herself up in the small attached room, she walks back to find it comfortably dark, the fireplace blanketing the room in a soft, yellow glow. Jon is laying in their bed, just watching her with a tired smile on his face, the affection in his eyes true and unmissable. _This is how it should have been after._ Though she can’t regret how things did go, she would still be up with her thoughts while he slept peacefully beside her if she didn’t voice them when she did.

She settles in next to him, allowing the contentment wash over her without trying to find reason to resist it. There was no use in letting these fears take over her happiness, especially when they were very unlikely unfounded. She knows they won’t leave her mind, perhaps they never would, but she would do her best to keep them in the back to keep them locked away, present but powerless.

“Let her think what she wants.” She says, trying to take back the control that she’d lost at the first mention of Sansa’s name.

“What?”

“Sansa. Let her think you’re only with me for the Realm. For our child. Anything to make her more compliant to how things will be.” If Sansa believed it already, there was no use in putting in the effort to try and change her mind. If she believed Jon was sacrificing his freedom to keep the Realm safe, then so be it. She could believe what she wanted but their love would contradict all of it and Sansa would have to much pride to admit that she’s wrong.

“Does that mean you want to tell her about the baby?”

“We might have to…so she understands what's at risk,” She hates the idea already. Sansa would look at her stomach with hate, she knows it. She would blame the ruin of her plans on the existence of their child.  “Or…we should wait until she arrives to make that decision. See her response to everything else first.”

“I think that’s a better idea,” he says, kissing her forehead. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll do, Dany. I did things the way I wanted last time and it nearly destroyed us.”

“Well…it’s like you said; We’re here now. That’s all that matters,” her eyes begin to grow heavy, her voice falling to a sleepy whisper. “We both just need to be strong enough to weather the oncoming storm.”

He doesn’t respond, instead he runs his fingers through her hair, the constant, gentle sweep of them keeps her from thinking too much. But as sleep pulls her under, his loving touch reminds her of everything he’s been since that day in the throne room, and a chill follows as she remembers everything she was right before.  

\---------------

“Are you nervous?”

He’s taken by surprise at the question, the curiosity in it. He never expected anyone but their more friendly allies to mention the events that would follow that evening, let alone his sister.

“Not at all.” He says, not caring to hide the excitement from his face.

She gets a faraway look at his response, and quickly moves her gaze to the sight in front of them, to the skeleton buildings and the occupied men rebuilding the bodies of them.

“You’re doing good here.”

“She is, too. These are her men; these are _our_ ideas.”

“Ideas she didn’t think to implement until you suggested it, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t want to fight with her, not today, so he changes the subject.

“I have something to ask of you,” he starts, suddenly feeling nervous. Daenerys fears his reaction to his family, he doesn’t. He knows now that she is his everything, that she’s the only one who could give him true happiness, but he’s nervous about them, all of them together. It was Sansa and Arya against them last time, he didn’t want that rift again. “When Sansa arrives…all I ask is that you keep in mind what _I_ want.”

“You think I’ll start plotting against you with Sansa as soon as she arrives?” She’s unimpressed at his words.

“If you both thought it was what’s best for me, yes.”

“It’s not just about you, though, Jon. It’s about what’s best for the Realm.”

“Aye, but I’m at the center of it, Arya. Me, your _brother_ ,” his voice loses its hard edge, and he feels as if he’ll be reduced to begging by the end of the conversation. “I know you don’t understand it…how much I love her; how much I _need_ to help her. Not for the Kingdoms, not for the people, not even for me, but for her. She’s _good_. She just lost sight of it for a while.”

“And when she loses sight of it again?” she asks, indulging his words she so obviously disagrees with.

“If she does, I’ll be at her side this time. She won’t be alone. She’ll have me and she’ll have our baby and she’ll know that she is loved.”

“You loved her the last time, too.”

“I did a shit job of showing it the last time,” He could have loved her better, he could have confided in her about his own feelings instead of what he did do. He could have done so much more. “But I can’t afford to make the same mistake. I won’t lose my wife and I won’t lose my child. And I can’t have my family plotting to make that happen.”

“You really think I would plot to take your child from you?”

“I don’t know, anymore, Arya.”

He can tell he’s hurt her feelings, but he doesn’t regret his words. He knows how his family hates Daenerys. He knows what hate can make a person do.

“I’ll see you tonight, Jon.” She says before walking away, not bothering to look back at him.

He’s only momentarily saddened, because then her thinks of her, and the joy overpowers everything else. They’re so close to it, their happy ending. He knows logically that their marriage would be far from the peace they envisioned for the country, but it would be his peace, and he would take everything else in stride, with his Queen and his wife beside him. His sister couldn’t dampen the joy he felt in that.

“Your Grace?” He looks to his right to see Tyrion approaching, tailed by the two guards tasked with watching him. Both men look annoyed, he can only assume Tyrion’s taking out his need to keep his mouth moving on them since he wasn’t allowed to do so with the people. It’s probably only worsened since he was told they speak the common tongue.

“Tyrion,” he acknowledges with a nod. “If you’re here for one last attempt at preventing anything, I’ll spare you the time and tell you that nothing will stop us.”

Tyrion sighs. “Believe me, I know it’s a waste of my breath to try again,” _But he would if he thought it would be successful._ “No, I’ve come to tell you I’ve finished outlining the plans. I’ve made some changes, mostly in Flea Bottom, but the cost shouldn’t be as great as I previously thought.”

“How long will everything take?”

“It shouldn’t prolong the rebuild, if that’s what you’re asking. I figure we can outline a schedule, so my construction happens before the builders come in. We don’t want to have to dig up and knock down newly built houses.”

“We’ll set up a meeting to do so after the peoples’ feast. For now, perfect everything. I want exact numbers.”

“I’ll need to speak to those keeping count of the supplies…”

“Then do it.” He doesn’t like the idea of giving him the freedom, but of all the people who are unhappy with their plans, Tyrion seems the least resistant. The man accepts the course the events have taken, and when he learns of their child, perhaps he would even be willing to help them, instead of being forced to do so.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replies, taking a hesitant step away.

“What, Tyrion?” He asks flatly.

“I…,” he sighs, though it isn’t sad, or defeated. Instead, he can almost hear a string of pride in it, but he could be wishing for it so much he’s made it up. “You’re going to make a fine King, Jon Snow. You were always meant for more than the Night’s Watch.”

He nods at the compliment. “I wouldn’t be a King without her.” It’s a fact as much as it is a promise. People can be proud to call him King, feel secure in calling him such, but they would always acknowledge her as their Queen in his presence.

To his surprise, Tyrion lets out a snort. “No, I don’t think you would be. Try as I might, I can’t picture another woman by your side. She was born to be a Queen; she doesn’t have the look for anything else.”

He doesn’t take it as the stilted compliment it’s meant to be, he only hears it as a threat, foreboding in its implications. If she weren’t Queen, she couldn’t be anything else. No one would let her be anything else. Being Queen kept her safe.

“She is so much more than a Queen, Tyrion. But aye, it’s in her blood to rule, to lead. She isn’t one to follow.”

“And neither are you, thank the gods.”

With that, Jon is done with the conversation. They’re nearing the edge of not-so- subtle insults and insinuations, he doesn’t have the patience for it, especially today.

“Get on with your work, Tyrion. We’ll see you this evening.”

He sees Tyrion nod in acknowledgment of the dismissal and walk away, his guards following behind him closely.

Jon takes a deep breath, not for the first time feeling childishly impatient for the day to move quicker. He begins to walk back to the main courtyard, having just spent the morning laying down the foundations in the new market streets, speaking to common folk who inquired, rather harshly, how they were expected to pay the rent on the buildings if all of their possessions and tools were burnt away. It was fair question, one that they’d anticipated, and he told them that they would need to apply for a space, and they would be given a stipend for tools and supplies for a predetermined amount of time, while also being given the buildings for no cost at all until they were able to provide for themselves. It was generous, too generous some might say, but Daenerys had insisted on all of it. She didn’t just burn people’s homes; she’d burned their workplaces as well. Most people were starting from nothing and would be given equal opportunity to better their positions. There was no longer a divide between the poor and the wealthy, and he tries his best to see the good in that.

With their complex plans, they were pressed for time in naming a Master of Coin, or any member of their small council, and they would need someone with more knowledge and experience to ensure successes in their promises to the people.

He doesn’t want to think about it now, he doesn’t want to be stressed. He was quite familiar with the feeling already, and with his position, he would know it for the rest of his life, but there would be days when he would push it from his mind without guilt and allow himself to feel nothing but happiness and ease. Days like today, when he would marry his love, and the day their child is born, and the day their _next_ child would be born…

When he finally spots her near the food tables, her eyes are already on him, and they share a smile. He quickly makes his way over, nodding at her expanded Queensguard, satisfied that she’s well protected.

“Your Grace.” He greets her smoothly, hoping she can hear the affection in the title. He called her such when they’d first met. Even in his thoughts, he had only every referred to her at _the Queen_ or _her Grace_ , all in an effort to resist the pull she had over him. It was a failed plan from the start, _Your Grace_ turned into _My Queen,_ to _Daenerys,_ to _Dany_.  

“Lord Snow.” She responds with a shy smile, catching on to his reminiscent tone.

He knew the others didn’t care about their marriage beyond a formal step towards stability, and he knew most were unhappy with the arrangement. But he elected to ignore the expansive meaning of their union and coronation and just sit with the knowledge that today he would be wed to a woman he loved beyond all measure. It’s what it all came down to, really, the reason they worked so well together, the reason he didn’t find everything else overwhelming.

“The day couldn’t be going by any slower.” He comments dryly.

“It’s already midday, my love,” she replies softly, her eyes shining so with joy, not a hint of the burdens she bares muddling the beautiful color with darkness. “Before you know it, you’ll have a crown on your head, and you’ll be wishing that the day had dragged on forever.”

It was said in jest, but he understands her well enough to know that more often than not, her humor stems from her fears in an effort to weaken their effect. He can’t find it in himself to jest back, he only wants her to know his truths.

“Why would I wish for that when we have so much to look forward to?” He says, stealing a glance to her belly, suddenly even more impatient for the hours, days, months to fly by so he can hold his child in his arms.

Her brows turn upward at his sentiment and he can see her hand twitch up to her stomach. She could probably do it, and no one would be bold enough to address of acknowledge her condition until they did it first, but they don’t want to give that information so freely to so many people when it wasn’t yet necessary, nor was it wise to do so until they were properly wed. The Faith had a strong following in the city, and the last thing they needed was for their baby to be labeled a bastard. Once that name was stamped onto a child it was hard to wash off, and it mattered not if the parents were wed before they were born. He would never allow his child to be called a bastard.

“Isn’t it customary for the betrothed couple not to see one another until the ceremony?”

“I believe so, but I’m afraid we ruined that prospect quite thoroughly this morning.” He answers teasingly.

She giggles at his words, every bit as carefree as he feels. “I suppose we did.”

“Are _you_ nervous? I never asked.”

“I am,” she says, the joy in her eyes dimming just a bit. “I’ve never been so close to having everything I’ve ever wanted. I worried someone will take it away.”

Her words jab at his heart, knowing that he’s encompassed in _someone._ Still, he’d rather hear her worries than watch her struggle with them on her own.

“I’ll run my sword through anyone who tries,” he promises a bit too seriously. “I’m only sorry it has to be done in private, all of it, like it’s something we should hide.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she sighs, looking at the ground. “It’s all because of me.”

He doesn’t disagree, only offering her a weak smile. “Perhaps we can have another, years from now, when everything is good, and the people celebrate your kindness.” _Gods, I hope so._

“That may never happen, Jon,” She shakes her head. “I think you need to accept that; I have.”

“I don’t think I do,” he replies, somewhat defiantly. “I have hope, Daenerys…don’t you?” He would feel like a failure if she’d lost hope. Hope made her radiant, hope made her happy.

“I try…but too much hope can turn to the most devastating disappointment when things don’t turn out as you wish. I’d rather be realistic than hopeful.”

He saddened by her words, she once spoke of the future with excitement and sureness, the way one could only speak if they had hope. She spoke with limitless dreams and never-ending potential. It was beautiful.  Now she speaks of the future as all monarchs do, narrow and limited, sure that she could only do so much. Now all she hopes for is tolerance. She sacrificed her dreams and her plans and her almost all of her hope for the throne. But she’d given him that same hope, he’d fed off it in that tiny cabin, and it made him feel more alive than he had since he’d first woken up on that cold wooden slab. He would do the same for her now, if he could.

“Well…I think, in ten years’ time, when the people lay flowers at your feet and smile at your kindness, you’ll owe me an apology for doubting me so profusely.”

She gives him a sad smile. “Ten years is a long way away, Jon Snow.”

“You’re right. We’ll just start with tonight, then. Marry me, take your place as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I promise you that I will be right by your side.” She only stares as him, and he keeps her eyes on hers, knowing she’s looking for something, anything to keep her from the hope. He knows she’ll find nothing; the words were as easy as breathing for him to say. “Will you be here the rest of the day?”

“No…I want to see Drogon again. I’ve been neglecting him. It’s just…I don’t want people to worry.”

“Worry?”

“About me…when I go to him. I don’t want them to be afraid when they see me walking towards the Dragonpit.”

 _Oh._ “Did they worry the last time?”

“A little. A few people must have seen…Grey Worm mentioned there was some unrest when he returned. Unrest and fear…not exactly what a Queen wants to inspire in her people.”

“I think it’ll fade…in time.” He hopes it will.

She isn’t receptive to his optimistic statement, but she doesn’t reject it either.  “I should get going then…it’s a bit of walk.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” she says, a small smile returning to her face. “We should adhere to the customs for _at least_ a few hours.”

“Right, the customs,” he says, rolling his eyes at how terribly they’ve already deviated from customary betrothals. “Then, I’ll see you tonight, my Queen.”

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it, and warmth fills him at the sound. “Tonight.” She nods, before taking her leave.

\--------------

She sits in front of the mirror, feeling Merri brush out the tangles in her hair behind her, trying to ignore the uneasiness that’s settled in her. She hates it, she should be overjoyed, and she is, but something is stopping her from feeling it without guilt.

It had started that morning. When Jon woke her, eagerly planting kisses down her body, she’d been happy, more excited than she could ever remember being. But afterwards, when he looked down at her beneath him and said _I can’t wait to marry you,_ she couldn’t match his enthusiasm. Something wouldn’t let her.

Even now, she tries her hardest to push it away, angry at herself for still being so unprepared in the fight against her own feelings, angry at herself for not understanding why she feels them.

“No more braids, Khaleesi?”

“No, just like that.” She didn’t care for any intricate braids, she couldn’t wear her victories without feeling ashamed at the cost. She didn’t want the others to think she was proud. She’d asked Merri to brush out the single braid she’d worn that day and give her two smaller ones, pulled together at the back, leaving the rest of her hair down in waves.

Staring at herself in the mirror, she looks softer. Strong but defeated. Powerful but broken. She could hardly figure out who she was anymore, she only knew that she didn’t exactly mind the opportunity to relearn what it meant to be Daenerys Targaryen.

Sitting with Drogon had helped, he brought her back to the center of it all. Even if she was still lost, at least she wasn’t being pulled too harshly in too many ways. She thought voicing her opinions aloud to her son would make them fall into places she could see and understand. It didn’t, but she was happy for the brief time she spent with him.

She hears the door open behind her and her heart flutters in her chest. Despite her confusion, the uneasiness, the anger, she couldn’t wait to marry him.

With Merri done with her hair, she dismisses her, reminding her that she was welcome to the ceremonies if she wished to attend.

The woman stares at her for a moment, a warm look in her eye and a sweet smile on her lips. “I will see you soon, Khaleesi. And your Khal as well.”

She feels a wave of sadness come over her, along with the familiar emptiness. Merri was quickly becoming a close friend, she was eager to help that friendship flourish, but it also reminded her of the friendships she no longer had, and the ones she never would have. Yara, the Prince, they were kind, and she believes she can call them friends, but they were allies first, and she couldn’t be anything less than strong in front of her allies.

Merri leaves the room and she stands, turning to face him.

“You look beautiful.” He says simply.

She looks down at herself, underwhelmed with the dress she would be wed and crowned in. It was a simple thing, ivory with dark red stitching. It cinched tightly at her waist and flared at her hips; the fabric thick enough to keep her belly obscured. The sleeves clung to her arms and flared at the cuffs, the inside a beautiful deep red satin. No one would notice the small detail, but it made her feel more of a Queen, the color of her house a hidden pride. She’d been hesitant to have Merri make something extravagant, the same uneasiness poking at her when she first asked. She ignored it then, too, brushing it off as hurt feelings that the union of a King and Queen, something that should be a happy occasion for the Kingdoms, would only be that way for the two of them. But it’s not exactly what she believes now, she’d long accepted the dread everyone else would feel as they exchanged vows. It was something else, that other thing she couldn’t name, accompanied with the thought that scrapes at her happiness more incessantly each time she dares to smile, _I don’t deserve this._

She shrugs. “Not the most memorable bride.”

He easily catches on to her somber mood, and moves to stand in front of her, cupping her face softly in his hands. “I disagree, I know I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life. We’ll tell our children about this day and I’ll tell them how stunning their mother looked in her white dress.”

She feels the tears in her eyes. _He knows exactly what to say._ She lets him believe his words even if she isn’t convinced.

“Is everything ready? The septon?” She asks, pulling his hands from her face to hold in her own.

“Aye, Septon Walton arrived with me, he’s in the Sept now.” Septon Walton was popular amongst the people. In the days after, he’d been seen more than a few times at the side of the dying, praying with them. Even to her they would ask for him in gasping breathes. He seemed a decent man, true to his faith, and kind in his practice. She’s more than a little relieved that he’d agreed to marry them and crown them, it would have eaten at her if a man of his faith and seemingly good standing had refused to be part of it.

“The Sept was intact?”

He nods. “Doesn’t have a complete roof, but it’s safe to stand in. We can still move everything to the throne room if—”

“No,” she interrupts. “I don’t…I don’t want to be in there.” She’s afraid of what would happen if she walked back in that room, if she saw that ugly chair. She’s afraid of what she’d remember, where she’d fall back to.

“Your throne’s in there, love.” he says quietly, not pushing for the idea, but letting her know he was alright with it. What that room must make _him_ think…all the more reason to avoid it.

“It’s not just mine,” She says clearly her throat, trying to feel the joy she _should_ be feeling. “Besides, there’s two of us, what use is a single chair?”

“You’ll sit on my lap.” He replies, as if it’s the most obvious solution.

“Oh right,” She says in amusement. “That would be quite the sight. We should destroy the bloody thing and have two made.”

“Whatever you want, my Queen.”

His words don’t comfort her the way they’re meant to, and she reads more into them that she should. It shouldn’t be whatever _she_ wants. Just as he asks her, she would ask him.

She brings her hand up to his cheek, finding the strength to give him one last opportunity to walk away from the duty he never wanted. “This is your last chance, Jon Snow…”

He begins to shake his head as soon as she starts, covering her hand with his, puling it to his lips to place a kiss on her wrist. “I’m going to change,” he says, ignoring her words. “And then you and I are going to get married.” He kisses her softly before stepping away to dress.

\---------------

She didn’t have a father, nor did she have someone who cared for her as a father should. Not anymore. And so, she walked the path alone, choosing to ignore the eyes on her, knowing none of them would reflect what she feels. There’s hardly any light in the room, only lit candles along the outer walls and the faint glow of the moon peaking in through the ceiling. There’s a chill in the air, small flurries fall through the open spaces, dusting the stone floors. It felt intimate, private, yet it also felt secret and forbidden, as if it shouldn’t be happening. The unease bothers her again and she does her best to remind herself that it couldn’t be any other way, she couldn’t let it to be. She could feel their gazes burning into her, judging her, condemning her, and she tries her hardest not to care. She can feel the lump forming in her throat at how cruelly the world treats her, and it hurts even more when she knows it’s been earned.

Before the tears of insecurity spill over, she focuses her eyes on him, only him. He’s wearing the black leather she’d gifted him, the same he’d worn only a few days ago, when they’d stood across the table as equals and laid out their future _together_. Longclaw was strapped into his sword belt, a proper sword for a proper King, his hair tied back a bit more neatly than usual. When she finally meets his gaze, he’s looking at her in a way that makes her believe everything would be alright, that they would truly be happy despite every tragedy they were met with, and every hurt they’d thrusted upon one another. He’s looking like he loves her, unconditionally, and it’s enough to make the other stares disappear.

When she reaches the end of the aisle, she moves to stand beside him, and throws a quick glance at the septon, giving him a nervous smile. She’s somewhat surprised to see a kindness in his eyes, and not a hint of intimidation or disdain, as if he’s marrying a young couple in love rather than the mad queen and a northern bastard the people see them as.

Jon doesn’t have a cloak, there was no time to make one, and he was still trying to acquaint himself with his true lineage, trying to figure out what it meant to be a dragon and a wolf. He didn’t want to cloak her one sigil that excluded the other. She doesn’t mind though, it’s was only a symbolic gesture, and she knew she was under his protection without feeling the weight of a cloak on her shoulders.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” His voice doesn’t carry, it isn’t grandiose and exaggerated, it’s humble. It’s soft and wistful and romantic. “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The septon holds up a white ribbon and motions for them to join hands. Jon grabs hers eagerly, squeezing them in his own, protecting them from the cold that she doesn’t feel. She stares down at their entwined fingers being wrapped gently in the delicate satin meant to hold them together forever, the meaning of the simple gesture suddenly hitting her. In that moment, she’s blessed by something, the gods or herself, and all the darkness falls away. She feels nothing but the unrestrained love and beautiful admiration they have for one another. When the tears gather in her eyes again, she doesn’t try to blink them away, doesn’t try to hide the vulnerability of being loved so completely it makes her cry. She knows most others don’t ever get to feel _this_ , she thinks no one would ever feel it as strongly, she would be a fool to pretend it doesn’t affect her as it does. “Let it be known that Daenerys of House Targaryen and Jon of Houses Targaryen and Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” He begins unravels the ribbon as softly as he wove it around them. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

When her eyes lift to meet his, she sees the soft sheen of unshed tears in his own, and his sweet smile that says so much. _I love you, I’ll always protect, I’ll never leave your side._

“Father, Smith, Warrior,” she feels a single tear roll down her cheek. “Mother, Maiden, Crown.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, wanting to keep this moment as close to her as she can. “I am his, and he is mine from this day until the end of my days.”

She hardly pays attention to her own vows, she’s only focusing on the way his tongue curls around them, the way his northern accent makes them sound beautiful and strong and unbreakable.

Time is still, she wants to stand here forever, holding his hands, her mind momentarily released from the torment. He wants to stay, too, she can tell. The emotions flicker in his eyes, love, lust, pride, love, determination, protectiveness, _love_.

They can’t, though. Septon Walton softly clears his throat, looking at Jon expectantly to finish the ceremony.

He heaves a breath, mustering up the courage to speak the declaration that’s not at all in his character. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” It’s only for her to hear, so intimate she sees the septon shift uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye.

When he presses his lips to hers, its hard and quick, his tongue sliding across her lip for only a moment, he seems to be more aware of their audience than she is. She doesn’t mind, though, she feels everything in that kiss.

It’s when they separate that her blessing is snatched away, when in the place of polite applause all she hears is silence, and the thoughts in her mind start to whisper again.

She tries not to let it bother her, and turns to face their small audience, feeling lucky enough to immediately land her eyes on Ser Davos. She smiles nervously at him, feeling more out of place the longer the silence goes uninterrupted, but he smiles back and begins to softly clap.

Yara follows, as do a few others. It’s scattered and half-hearted congratulation, she knows, but it’s better than the silence. She scans her eyes across the small crowd, her Dothraki men and woman chosen to bear witness warming her heart with their proud smiles and enthusiastic claps. She feels less alone when she sees Merri with an adoring look, akin to motherly friendship, and Rakho without a hint of judgement. Behind them she can see the Unsullied guards softly tapping their spears onto the stone. She doesn’t linger on the people that kept their hands at their sides, she knows why they do, and she knows she can’t make them share in her joy. She briefly pauses her eyes on Arya, at first hoping Jon wouldn’t be hurt by his sister’s refusal to clap, but relieved to see her looking at her brother intently, her gaze not hateful or angry, but empathetic. Dany knows Jon is looking back, perhaps waiting for something, and she wishes in that moment for Arya to simply be happy for her brother. Arya gives him the slightest smile, dipping her head slightly, before averting her gaze to the ground. She can feel Jon’s elation radiating from his body.

In her sweep of the room, her eyes meet Tyrion’s. He isn’t clapping, though she can see him clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. She must show something on her face, something that affects him, because he offers her a sad smile before shifting his eyes to stare at the wall behind her.

“Will you be crowned here in the Sept, Your Graces?” Septon Walton asks behind her.

They both turn, hearing the claps die out as the room prepares for another ceremony they don’t support.

“We will,” Jon answers, his voice no longer soft and gentle, no longer just for her, but for everyone around him. The people he would rule. “I hope that isn’t a problem?” He asks the septon, raising an eyebrow, daring him to oppose it.

“Of course, not.”

Just then, he motions to her left and Merri walks forward from the edge of the modest crowd with a chest. Their crowns.

“Your Grace, if you would stand here and face the audience?” The Septon quietly says to Jon, motioning for him to move in front of him. He turns to Daenerys. “And you, Your Grace, if you could step over here…” He motions to Jon’s left. “Now, I’ll begin with the King’s—”

“My wife will be crowned first.”

 _My wife_. Hearing him say it makes her feel something entirely foreign and new. The warmth of the word wraps around her and makes her feel steady. Like it’s possible and _right_ for her to stay exactly where she is. To plant trees and watch them grow. Of course, she only feels so at peace for a moment.

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

She takes her place by Jon and turns to face the room. It’s not what she had imagined at all. She’d spent countless nights dreaming of the day she took the throne, longing for the looks of hope and admiration from the people she’d freed from neglectful monarchs.  She imagined people lining the streets to wave at her, smiles on their faces, clean and plump and healthy. She’d wanted to hold children and kiss their faces, shake hands with men and women who believed in her. She wanted so desperately to feel welcomed to the country she should have called home. Even in her more humbled daydreams, she had still pictured acceptance and respect.

Instead, she was in a small, crumbling room, dirt and snow beneath her feet. It wasn’t a bright, warm day where she could celebrate in the street with her people. The image looking back at her was everything she tried to fight against; hate, rejection, _fear_. Not even the man beside her, her _husband_ , could completely shield her from the hurt. This was something she’d wanted long before she met him, something she knew she could accomplish, something she did accomplish before.

She didn’t want to think to the moment she changed it all.

So, she doesn’t. She closes herself off from everyone, everything. She watches as the septon lifts her crown from the chest. She hadn’t seen it before, she didn’t care to have a say in the design. Jon had mentioned it to her only a few days before and she asked him to see it done. She thought it selfish to spend her time designing a piece of jewelry rather than tending to her people.

It’s simple, but beautiful. Dark obsidian twirling intricately with iron, the braided design delicate but strongly made. There isn’t any detailing etched onto it, just a smooth slide of metal. She feels guilty for appreciating it, the unease creeping up again despite her efforts to stay numb to it all.  

She can hear the Septon make his proclamations, _Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,_ and placing the crown onto her head, the weight of it almost unnoticeable, but it’s crushes her all the same. She feels no joy in it, no victory or relief at finally achieving what she’d lost so much for. _Maybe the cost was too high._

When he turns to take Jon’s crown from the chest, she almost feels everything at once and begs him not to go through with it. She doesn’t want him to feel this, any of this, but he would have no reason to. He didn’t do what she did. So, she listens as he’s condemned to rule at her side, the Septon’s voice faraway but deafening. _King of the Andals and the First Men. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms._ His crown is the same as hers, though less intricate. The iron and obsidian bend together, follow the same path, but they don’t twist. It’s modest, beautiful, strong, same as him.

Despite her itching need to stop him from going through with it, she feels nothing but immense reassurance flooding her veins, a joy she couldn’t explain to anyone but him. The relief wouldn’t be possible without a crown on her head. Fighting against the guilt, she thinks of her future away from everyone that would wish her gone. It’s a small future, nothing that would grace history books, but perfect. She could picture late mornings spent with Jon and their baby, first steps and first words. She’ll never have to fall asleep alone again. Her King, her _husband_ , and their baby made from their love. Her family and her home. It’s more frightening than it is comforting. If she ever lost one, the other would leave her as well. She can’t lose them, she _won’t_ lose them. _I can’t feel guilty, I won’t feel guilty. To have my family, I must have the crown._

It doesn’t work but she pretends it does.

She realizes it’s is over when Septon Walton steps aside and she’s faced once again with people who would never recognize her hardships or her pain.

Once again, the modest claps echo across the room. It’s pitiful. This time, it’s only the people who came with her from Essos and their few allies. This time, Arya and Tyrion don’t smile.

Jon saves her from the judgement as well as he can, requesting, _commanding_ , that everyone join them for a small feast, effectively ending the ceremonies. He tells them to begin the meal without the two of them and enjoy the wine provided by Prince Quentyn. He looks over to the man, silently begging him to soften the glares of their guests and charm them as best he can. She’s too lost in her own head to appreciate his authority, the gentleness with which he leads. She knows commands from her are taken as threats more often than not. He motions for everyone to make their way to the courtyard, and the Unsullied herd them into a small procession to escort them. On their way out, she can here Ser Davos’ kind voice try to rouse some excitement by running through the dishes that were prepared for the evening.

“I’ll be just outside.” Grey Worm nods to the both of them before leaving the area.

Jon turns to face her as soon as their alone, pulling her into a deep kiss.

“I love you,” He says when he finally breaks away, breathless. “My Queen.”

“You seem to be the only one that does.” She doesn’t mean to sound so pathetic, and it’s not necessarily true, but it’s true enough. It’s never been more glaringly obvious.

He doesn’t try to deny it, doesn’t feed her falsehoods. She’s glad he doesn’t. “They’re your people now, truly. They’re your children, in a sense, they need your care and your love, even if they don’t realize it.”

“I know that. But there’s only so much a person can take. Why should I exhaust myself when my efforts are useless?”

“Because you’re the Queen. It’s your duty, mine as well. Don’t forget that I’m here. You aren’t alone.” She nods at his words, playing with the collar of his gambeson, fixating her eyes on the pitch-black color. “I thought you would be happier.” He mumbles sadly, as if he’s the reason for her dejected mood.

“I thought I would be, too.”

“You’re going to be an amazing Queen, Dany.”

“I hope I live up to your expectations.” She says with a weak smile, trying to feel happier. For him.

“You’ll exceed them.” He says it with such certainty she almost believes it. But she can’t really…not until she can say it without fear of choking on the responsibility of her own words, without feeling like a fraud when she speaks them. She wants to be able to one day.

It’s a small push she needs, and she nods back at him, mustering up a more confident smile. She has more reason to be happy that she does to be anything else. They’re married. _Finally_. She feels like she’s wanted it for a lifetime, when in reality she’s known him for less than a year. She knows what it feels like to lose the possibility of this, and it caused her enough pain to know she would never willingly give it up. She wouldn’t feel anything but happiness at their union, no matter how much everyone else felt otherwise. It was _hers_ , her family and her life and her love and she wouldn’t sacrifice it to make others happy.

She couldn’t quite feel the same about her coronation. She didn’t want to acknowledge what she felt about it.

“We should join the others,” She says. “Get this supper over with.”

He cracks a smile at her petulant tone, turning to face the exit, offering her his arm. It’s formal, stuffy, but she couldn’t be anything else in front of these lords, couldn’t show anymore weakness than she already does. She would need to stand tall and confident even though she felt anything but. Maybe the act would help her make it a reality.

As they walk into the open space, she’s surprised to see the warmth emanating from the people. They’re talking with one another; some even look content. They’ve each piled food onto their plates and filled their goblets to the brim. _They’ll take what I give them, but they won’t thank me for it._ She can’t help but feel bitter at it. Prince Quentyn is walking around the smaller tables they’ve brought in, doing just as Jon asked. Though her people, the ones who truly believe in her, are sitting separately from the rest, she doesn’t see any cold looks being thrown their way.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Grey Worm prepare to announce their arrival, but she stops it with a touch on his shoulder.

She likes watching them, watching them smile even after she’s been named their Queen. It must not be a completely terrifying prospect if they can still find joy in simple things. She walks quietly along the edge, making her over to the larger table, Jon walking beside her, a step or two behind.

The room gets quieter as people being to notice their arrival, and by the time she makes it to the largest table, it’s as quiet as it was in the sept. The chairs had been rearranged, four moved to one side and two on each edge so they could face their guests. Choosing to ignore the stares, she moves to sit at one of the chairs in the center, next to Yara. Beside Jon’s chair sits Ser Davos, and to her surprise, Arya.

Yara and Ser Davos are quick to stand and bow slightly to the pair of them, the scrape of their chairs against the ground, breaking whatever wary trance the other guests are in and they all move to stand, some making a larger display of reluctancy that others.

“Please, don’t,” She starts, sounding much more confident she feels. They all pause at her words. “Sit and enjoy your meal, there’s no need for formalities.” Even if it strengthens her authority, she doesn’t want to force them more than she already has. She’s Queen now, that’s all that matters, she doesn’t want reluctant bows when they don’t hold any respect in them. Especially not tonight, when she only wants to be happy that she’s married to the man she loves.  

At her words, the Dothraki guests continue their jovial conversations and resume their eating, the Westerosi throw each other glances of suspicion.

She ignores them and moves to sit. Jon quickly pulls the seat out for her and her heart aches at the simple courtesy. She smiles up at him, hoping he understands that his presence will never go unappreciated. She believes him when he says he want to be here with her, but she also knows if he were given the choice in any other circumstance, he would not have chosen this life for himself. He may deny it, but she knows.

When they’re both seated, he has an easier time at ignoring the stares, and begins to pile food onto her empty plate. Meanwhile, she feels herself grow red and self-conscious at the scrutinizing eyes of her audience and lifts her cup to her mouth to try and look more at ease.

Her guests to her left mercifully try to distract her.

“I am terribly sorry you can’t have any wine, Your Grace, I’ll be sure to gift you some in the near future.” Quentyn says in a hushed voice when he makes his way back to his own chair, leaning towards her and Yara.

“That would be lovely, I do have an affinity for Dornish wine. I’m sure we’ll have nothing but ale here for a long while, my husband is of the North through and through.” She smiles into her cup. _My husband_. She looks to him and sees him quiet conversation with his sister, with Davos watching the exchange patiently. Neither looks upset, but both look serious. She turns back to Yara, “I’m surprised she chose to sit here.”

“Well it took some convincing on my part, but Lady Stark eventually gave in, she is his sister after all. It would bad if she sat anywhere else.”

Just then, she hears Jon’s voice raise, loud enough for the rest of their table to hear. “Seven hells, Arya! It’s done.” He moves to grab her hand under the table, sliding his fingers through hers and placing their hands on his thigh. He turns away from his sister, ending their conversation. “Prince Quentyn, I thank you for your help with all of this.”

“Are you alright?” She whispers, leaning into him.

“I am.”

“Arya?”

“Words that can’t hurt us, love.”

“My pleasure, Your Grace,” Prince Quentyn answers, courteously ignoring their exchange. “Even you stiff Northerners can be seduced by good wine and warm food.”

“Most will think the wine too sweet.” Jon replies. She can feel him starting to relax, his grip loosening.

“Oh, they said as much,” the Prince answers back with a sly smile. “Wouldn’t drink it until I guaranteed it would get them good and drunk.”

“Is that a wise plan? To get them good and drunk?”

“Oh, let them,” she says, wanting desperately for her wedding feast to feel less dreary than it already is. “You and I can disappear after our meal, let them have their fun.”

Her words carry across the table and she hears Arya scoff at them. They all turn to look at her, she tightens her grip on Jon, letting him know she doesn’t need him to defend her against his sister.

At their attention, Arya nearly rolls her eyes. “That’s _generous_ of you, Your Grace, to let them have their fun.”

An uncomfortable silence fills the table, and she does her best to stay above it all. She’d done it before, she knows how to navigate through unpleasant conversations. She ignores Arya’s blatant instigation and looks to Ser Davos. “Do you prefer ale to wine, Ser Davos?”

“Ale is easier to come by, Your Grace,” he nods. “Though I won’t turn down a cup of Dornish wine when it’s offered, goes down smooth.”

“Smart man.” Prince Quentyn smiles. “Lady Stark, I hear you’re good with a sword.”

“Arya, not Lady Stark,” She says. For a moment it seems like she won’t say anymore but she throws a look at Jon before reluctantly continuing. “I am, I trained in Braavos.”

“Can you hold your own against a spear? I would like to see if you live up to these rumors.”

“I can hold my own just fine, though there is no time for sword play nowadays,” she says rigidly, turning to Dany. “There’s far too much to do.”

She doesn’t cower under the challenge, but she doesn’t engage her either. She wouldn’t fight with Jon’s sister.

“If you ever do fight, I want to watch,” Yara says, cutting into the meat on her plate, trying to melt the cold tension. “I have ten gold dragons on Arya.”

“ _Ten_ gold dragons?” Prince Quentyn asks in disbelief.

“You’re showy. She would let you tire yourself out with all your tricks before she lunges.” She says, pointing at Arya with her fork.

She throws them a grateful look at their efforts, but she suspects they’re futile.

“Maybe one day I’ll take you up on that offer.”

It’s all she says, but Dany almost throws her a look of thanks as well, knowing she’s only speaking at all for Jon’s sake.

“And you, Your Grace?” Prince Quentyn starts, carrying on the topic, addressing Jon. “That’s a beautiful sword, do you know how to use it?”

She and Jon share a smile, thinking of their conversation a few nights before. _That lofty prince won’t be able to steal your affections without a fight, and I have no doubt I could easily best him._  

“I would break your spear in half.” Jon says seriously.

Quiet laughter breaks around the table, even Arya cracks a smile, and Dany can see some of the Lords at the other tables look at them curiously. _This is the best I can hope for._

The rest of the meal is filled with random conversation, most of the talking done by Ser Davos and Prince Quentyn. _He will make a wonderful hand._

At the thought, she looks to her former hand, her former friend. He’s sitting next to Samwell Tarly, a combination likely to breed treason, but behind them she sees Tyrion’s personal guards at his back. If their conversation was anything less than innocent, she would know.

Suddenly, he meets her eyes, staring at her with that same sad look. She reaches for a point of familiarity between them, feeling happy enough to push his betrayals from her mind, just for tonight, and nods to the goblet in his hand, raising an eyebrow at him. She’s allowed him to have wine for the progress he’d made on the sewers, but he was warned to drink in moderation.

From her distance, she can see him huff out a laugh, his lips curling upward as he slightly raises his cup to her in toast and takes a drink. Beside him, Sam shifts uncomfortably, as if he can avoid her gaze if he wishes it enough. She looks to him next, patiently waiting for him to realize he has her attention.

When he does, she simply gives him a gentle smile and returns to her dessert.

Beside her, Yara chuckles. “You’re going to make him piss his pants.”

“If he’s going to be Lord of Highgarden, he needs to at least be able to look at me without turning into a frightened little boy.”

“And is he going to be? Lord of Highgarden?”

“I don’t know, yet. I’ll need to speak with him myself.”

As she finishes the last of her dessert, she sits back and listens to Yara and Prince Quentyn’s playful argument about Dornish women, and Jon’s conversation with Ser Davos about schoolhouses.

It starts to feel familiar, being surrounded by interactions she isn’t part of, by people who don’t know or care about the extent of her pain or her grief. But she doesn’t let herself fall into that crippling loneliness, knowing it’s only her mind playing tricks on her. Jon isn’t at the other side of the table pretending that they mean nothing to each other, Varys isn’t at her side judging her for her silence. When she leaves the room now, her husband would be at her side.

Knowing her as well as he does, he tugs at her hand to get her attention. When he has it, he leans closer to her. “Are you ready to retire?”

She nods. The night had gone well, she didn’t want to give it an opportunity to sour.

They bid farewell to their own table as quietly as they can, not wanting to draw attention to their departure, feeling happy as Ser Davos looks at them with fondness, amused as Yara and Prince Quentyn give them suggestive looks, awkward as Arya only stares at them blankly.

When they rise from the table, the others remain seated at their request. As they make their way out, the chattering once again slows, but they don’t acknowledge it. Jon stops their exit at Sam, placing a hand on his shoulder, thanking him for coming. Sam smiles back at him, seeming genuine for the first time since he’d arrived.

“My Lord, I think you and I would benefit from a conversation soon. Would you be able to join me for tea before you leave the city?” There’s an obvious command in her words, though she manages to keep it gentle. She would allow Sam the opportunity to prove her suspicions wrong. Perhaps he was more reliable than he looks.

His eyes dart between her and Jon, looking for an escape, not knowing his friend won’t offer him one. At Jon’s silence, he takes a deep breath and answers her. “I believe we would, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

She smiles at his weak efforts. “I’ll arrange it soon.”

Jon takes her hand and pulls her from the room, asking Grey Worm to keep the peace between their guests and a close eye on their wine intake.

They walk to their rooms in silence, passing more guards than usual in the long hallway in front of their door. It was more than likely Jon’s doing, taking extra precaution with the additional strangers in the keep tonight. All their weapons had been taken but it was better to be overly cautious than careless.

When they enter their rooms, he immediately goes to light the fire, leaving her standing at the door. She turns to lock it, smiling at the two added chains, slightly astounded that someone would care for her well-being so much, sad that no one else ever had before. Not like him. She walks over to him, standing next to the chairs facing the fireplace, watching as he places all his focus on building a fire just to keep her warm.

The tears come without warning this time, falling before she has a chance to stop them.

As she’s wiping them from her cheeks, he stands and turns, the boyish satisfaction at starting a roaring fire falling from his face as soon as he sees her.

“What’s wrong?”

She smiles, shaking her head profusely. Nothing was wrong this time, there was no fear at the thought of losing him tonight. “Nothing at all.”

He smiles back, understanding exactly what brought her to tears without asking. _I am his and he is mine._ Not only in their hearts, but in eyes of gods and men, an unattainable dream only a few moons ago. For the rest of their lives they always be Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. Husband and wife. King and Queen. Together.

He steps away from the fire and moves to stand in front of her, bringing his hands up to slowly untie the top of her dress. She tries to do the same, but he stops her, kissing the tips of her fingers before guiding them to her sides.

When the ties of her dress are undone, he peels the outer layer from her body, his fingers leaving a scorching trail of heat down her arms and he pushes the sleeves down. The shift underneath is thin and loose, easy to remove, but he takes his time anyway, all the while keeping his eyes on her face, enjoying her minute reactions to the feather touch of his hands.

He finally lets his eyes wander down when he pulls the sheer fabric from her body, pupils blown wide, the focus of a hunter eyeing his prey. He runs his hands down her sides, his touch a little less delicate, the warmth of them searing her skin.

He shifts closer to her, until their lips are only a breath away. Brings his hands up to run the tips of his fingers along her jaw. She can feel them trembling, but she understands why, they’re both thinking the same thing; _I can’t believe you’re mine._ They move up to her temples, to the pretty crown on her head, lifting it gently. She hears a small thud as he tosses it onto the seat of the chair beside him, followed by the thud of his own, and then his hands are moving to the tight space between them, pulling at the strings of her pants. He doesn’t rush it, unlacing her at a tortuously slow pace, unwrapping her like a gift, savoring the anticipation of seeing what lies underneath.

She’s unable to keep her hands still, taking fistfuls of his clothes onto her grasp, leaning up to touch her lips to hers.

He pushes her pants and her smallclothes down to her feet, walking her back until the bed hits her thighs.

She sits, looking up at him, not a sound passed between them save for the trembling breathes of love and lust. When her hands go to work the ties of his trousers, he lets her, focusing his attention on his gambeson. Her hands roam over every bit of skin she can reach, loving the way he shudders at her touch. He kneels in front of her, grabbing the back of her calf to lift her foot. He removes one boot, and then switches to the other, handling her like a fragile piece of art.

His kisses his way up her ankles, her calves, her thighs, the short hairs of his beard tickling her skin, making her giggle.

His head shoots up, a carefree smile on his face. “I love hearing you laugh.”

“Come here,” She pulls his hair loose from his bun, running her fingers through the soft curls, pulling him up to her. “You’re too far away.”

He crawls over her, and she pushes herself back until she reaches the pillows, their kisses becoming wild and wet, her breathing turning into small whimpers.

She only thinks of him as he settles between her thighs and runs his length along her folds, only feels love when he presses her brow to hers, his eyes scrunched in adorable concentration, only knows bliss when his finally pushes into her, slow and deep. With every thrust everything feels more and more perfect. Nothing is there to eat away at her, to steal any of her pleasure, or poison her growing elation with doubt.

In between kisses, they both whisper breathless promises and vows, incomplete and disjointed but desperate for the other to hear them anyway. She hardly knows what’s falling from her lips, or from his, but every word of it is absolute. They’re beautiful too, the sweetest words anyone’s ever said to her.

When she falls over the edge, she clings to him tightly, calling out his name, the sound driving him to thrust harder and faster, to meet her at the peak before she descends. When he does, it’s exquisite. The feeling of his length pulsing inside her body is one she hopes she’ll never stop experiencing.

She opens her eyes, watching him try to steady his breathe, seeing his arms struggle to hold himself over her.

She pulls his down, relieving him of the effort, relishing in the feel of his weight over hers.

“Your heart is wild.” He says, tired and happy, his cheek presses to her breastbone.

She can only hum in response, her lids already heavy with sleep. She wants to fall asleep now, before she can think of anything else, before anything else can remember to think of her. Before her mind drifts to the forgotten crowns near the fire, before she begins to feel guilt and hear the thought.

As she drifts, she feels the weight over her disappear, and then reappear at her side. He drapes his arm across her middle, pulling her flush against him, her back to his front. When he curls his warm hand at her naval, she feels her lips lift on their own accord. He kisses her temple and settles behind her.

This is it. This is how she would fall asleep every night, how she would wake every morning. Sansa couldn’t take this away. Nor could Arya. Or even Sam. She might feel differently come morning. At the moment, it’s the only truth she knows now.

But she can never be happy for long. She never knows if she’s already paid the price. Fear catches her right before she reaches the comforting darkness of slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no Sansa! I really didn't do it to drag it on, but by the time I got to the end of the coronation bit I noticed how much I had actually written. And I feel like her meeting would have just been tacked on at the end, it would have felt out of place. This was pure Jon and Dany, I hope that's okay!
> 
> So for the wedding, I kept it pretty simple, followed the general dialogue and actions of plain old Seven ceremony. If I got anything wrong, you can berate me but also blame the first few links on google that I clicked on lol. I hope it wasn't too dull, but realistically, the wouldn't have the red carpet rolled out for the event. 
> 
> As for the coronation, I just winged it. Hope that's cool. It wasn't meant to be a particularly happy coronation. Think Cersei's in episode 6x10, but maybe not as intense. There is definitely fear and bitterness in the crowd, but the sadness is all Dany. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Okay, not gonna lie, this chapter was an absolute pain to write. I don't know why, it just was. It wasn't fun, and things didn't come to me as easily as they usually have. I'm happy to be done with it lol. That being said, stuff happens and people talk, so I'm as satisfied as I can be with it, please don't let my pessimism put you off!
> 
> Spelling errors are a given, but that's a staple with the fic, I'm sure we're all used to it.

As they walked towards the gates of the city, Jon felt strangely calm. Sansa would be arriving within the hour, she’d had the sense to send a messenger when she was a day’s ride from the city, unaware that they already knew she was coming. It was a failed power-play, and he felt unapologetically smug that she wouldn’t get the panicked welcoming she was undoubtedly expecting.

It was late morning, and by some miracle the sun was shining through the dense clouds. There was no snowfall and the air was still, undisturbed by biting winds, as if nature was aiding them in their conflict with his sister and choosing the friendly nature of the South rather than the chill of the North.

Behind them, the peoples’ feast had begun, and there was a cautious buzz of excitement in the city. They’d left Davos in in charge of the event while they greeted Sansa, trusting his naturally kind demeanor to soften the wariness.

They had made an announcement of sorts the day before acknowledging their marriage and coronation, trusting the news of the day of rest to spread on its own. It had, though it hadn’t roused up anything positive, only worry. People were waiting with bated breath only hours ago, waiting for something to happen. Waiting to see Daenerys suddenly take away all of their comforts, waiting for Drogon to cast another large shadow of misery over them. Not a word was said, but as they walked down the steps of the keep together, he wasn’t spared a glance, all eyes were on her, eyes full of fear.

If she was affected, she didn’t show it, and that gave him a sad hope. Perhaps she was growing used to the hate, becoming unfazed by it, ready to drown in it in order to perform her duties as Queen.

Most of the people now knew of their marriage, and the rest would know by the end of the day. Because of that, Jon felt no need to hide his affection for his wife, taking her hand tightly in his as they walked down the empty streets. It was a simple joy, one he never thought he’d appreciate so much. He had asked her the morning before if she would mind, whether or not she wanted to display that part of themselves, and she’d simply told him that their love would be their strength and not their weakness.

Still, they had both been rather tentative at the start, only choosing to stand closer to one another, letting their hands graze against each other. In the afternoon, she’d grabbed onto his hand, and they both let out a sigh of relief when they saw that nobody truly cared. He went so far as to kiss her forehead before he left her side to speak to Grey Worm, and to his pleasant surprise he had seen soft smiles on just a few young women’s faces as he turned away. They were clearly romantics at heart, but perhaps it would soften his wife in their eyes, to see her as a woman instead of a tyrant. He told her as much as they lay in bed several hours later, and she seemed conflicted about it. _But I’m not like them, I’m a Queen. If they see me as just a woman, they’ll think me weak._ Still, after a few minutes, she changed her mind, seeing the benefit of chipping at the hard edges of her image, of being more relatable to people who didn’t necessarily see her as a person. 

He could feel her tension, her hand squeezing his impossibly tight, and he gripped it just as tightly in reassurance. He wouldn’t fail her again. It’s all so easy now, to know what he wanted, who he wanted, whereas before he doubted everything, and they’d all suffered for it. Nothing could sway him about it, and so he doesn’t feel his nerves pulsing in anticipation about what Sansa would do, because he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

“Do you think she’ll demand to speak to you in private, or make a public spectacle?”

Behind them, Arya answers Dany’s question. “Sansa isn’t stupid, she won’t say anything against Jon in public.” He turns his head to glance at her and sees her looking at Daenerys in offense. “Don’t underestimate her.”

Daenerys keeps her eyes forward and squeezes his hand, asking him to stay silent. “I don’t, but I know what Sansa wants. She wants power, and I worry she’ll risk anything in order to get it.”

“She won’t.” Arya bites back.

“Do you really believe that?”

This time, Arya doesn’t answer, and only let’s out a huff of frustration.

As they reach the gates of the city, still in disrepair, more of a gaping hole in the stone wall, they can see the expanse of military camps set up just outside. The Unsullied tents sit just outside the gates, and the Dothraki have taken up much of the right side. A little further outward are the armies of the Vale, the Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the Stormlands. They’re smaller in numbers than Dany’s, although half of her Dothraki camp is occupied by the woman and children, not just her warriors.

Jon sees men walking about freely, Unsullied walking in pairs with Dornishmen, men of the Vale practicing archery with the Dothraki. It’s a sight he appreciates. To have her people rejected in the South as they had been in the North would have frustrated her. He thinks it would have frustrated him as well if he hadn’t been on the ground with them that day, hadn’t seen the way they followed their Queen’s lead and slaughtered innocent people in the streets. In fact, he’s surprised the see the hostility is not as heightened with other soldiers as it had been with the people. It wasn’t just them though, he reminds himself, his men did it too. All their men had failed him that day, just as she did.

He feels a tinge of guilt about the way he’s thinking of his wife, but he pushes it away. He wouldn’t prove everyone right and act as if what she did was just or fair or forgivable. Especially now, when Sansa would be watching him with a close eye, waiting to point out any weakness she spots in him and use it to her advantage. But Dany was right, their love would be their strength, and not their weakness. He loved her despite her failures, and she forgave him for his. Their armor instead of weapons to pierce their skin.

“Do the men out here know of the feast?” Dany asks.

“They do, but I believe Grey Worm was arranging for food and drink to be brought out to them later in the day. He doesn’t want the camps completely unmanned.” He answers, looking at the man for confirmation.

He gives Jon a hard nod, incredibly focused on keeping his Queen safe with the impending arrival of new people, not knowing their intentions.

“Thank you, Grey Worm,” she says, somewhat distracted by the lack of conflict around them, a smile playing on her lips. “Is she close?”

“Yes, my Queen, the King and I have sent a few of my men to escort her.”

“She won’t take kindly to that.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jon responds with a bite. “She will learn quickly that this country will not be built on her own desires.”

Dany tilts her head, looking at him worry. “Jon, she hasn’t done anything yet, remember that. Don’t greet her with hostility. It’s what she wants,” She leans in closer, her next words only for him. “Don’t do it to try and prove something to me, please.”

“I can’t trust her.”

“Neither can I, but we’re asking her to have faith in us, we should at least offer her the same. If she isn’t…open to a friendly alliance, I won’t say another word about it.”

“And you have faith in her?” He asks incredulously.

“I’m trying my best to have it.”

“She’s right, Jon. Sansa is our sister, not your enemy,” He looks to his sister again to see her eyes narrowed at the back of Dany’s head, trying to decipher her motives.

“Aye, and it was our sister who betrayed my trust, not an enemy.”

“She did it for you.”

“She did it for herself, Arya. She did it because she didn’t like Daenerys and she did it so I would be able to grant independence to the North as King.”

“She wanted better for you—”

“She knew I didn’t want the throne.”

“Yet here you are, King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And she still won’t get what she wants. I was only the means to an end, Arya.” He looks at his sister in sympathy, wanting her to understand that he isn’t being hateful, he’s just saying what he knows to be true. _She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met._ Her loyalty to Sansa is as strong as it is to him. He hates pulling her in two different directions, he only hopes Sansa will feel the same and work with them towards compromise.

There’s a sudden flurry of commotion, and they all look to see Stark banners coming up the road, breaking the horizon.

Next to him, Dany takes a deep breath, readying herself for however his sister chooses to treat them. Dany is right, of course, he shouldn’t be so angry already when he has yet to see her, but he can’t help but be defensive. Dany isn’t just an ally, a secret lover, she’s his wife. He couldn’t remain neutral between his wife and his sister; he would choose to stand at his wife’s side every time.

The figures in the distance start becoming clearer, and he can see his sister’s striking red hair before anything else. _She’s decided to step out of her carriage, I see._

For the first time he considers his brother’s role in all of this. _Why did Bran come?_ It didn’t make sense to him, not when Sansa had clearly taken the leadership role for her own. It seemed like it would have been quite difficult and time consuming to escort Bran down the capital as well given his chair, so why did they feel the need to do it?

Some of his nerves return to him. He knew how he would handle Sansa, but Bran was an unknown. He held no ill will towards his brother. _The Three-Eyed Raven,_ he’d called himself. Jon didn’t know what that meant, not really. Only that Bran having the knowledge he did almost tore his world apart. It made Bran a danger he would have to approach with caution. He didn’t know his motivations, his reasons, his purpose, if he had any at all.

Daenerys pulls her hand away from his and he looks to her in question.

“I don’t want to anger her before she even gets off her horse.”

“I’m not concerned with her anger, but if you insist.” He says in amusement.

She smiles sweetly at him. “I do. At least until we can speak to her in private.”

He nods, squaring his shoulders as Stark bannermen come to a stop fifty feet away from them. From this distance, he can see his sister’s features a little better, enough to know that she isn’t smiling. She sits still on her horse for a moment, observing them as they are her, before she makes a move to step down. The guard nearest is quick to help her, and she begins to make her way over slowly, her steps calm and collected instead of guarded.

She stops a few feet in front of them, eyeing Daenerys coldly before moving her icy stare to him, dragging her eyes over him slowly, critically, stopping at the top of his head.

“No crowns?” Her words are biting, full of resentment and anger.

She knows. _But who told her?_ Bran. _What else does she know? Did he tell her about the baby?_ Her gaze hadn’t lingered on Dany’s stomach, though. Surely, it would have been obvious if she’d known.

Before he begins to spiral into panic, Daenerys answers her. “Good, you know. I hope you’ve had time to come to terms with what it means.” Her voice is unwavering, cool. The way it was when she first spoke to him.

“I’ve had time to think about a lot.”

He steps forward, unsure of what he wants to do, trying to come across as more open than he feels. “I hope your journey wasn’t too difficult. I know the snows are falling further South with each passing day.”

“I was born in the North, Jon. Snow isn’t a problem.”

He nods, letting his eyes wander to the host of men gathering behind her, the carriage slowly coming up the road. “And Bran?”

“He insisted on accompanying me. And without his…gift, I would have been completely unaware of what’s transpired. I suppose that’s what you wanted though, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t eager to keep you informed, no,” he answers back calmly. “That’s the same reason you didn’t respond to our ravens, right? To keep us unaware of your own movements?”

He sees her lips twitch up into a smirk, pleased with herself. He takes a deep breath, knowing it would be unwise to snap at his infuriating sister now.

Instead, he takes another step closer, leaning in and lowering his voice. “If you have any intention of starting a battle with the men you’ve brought, I would think twice about it.”

She looks at him in slight disbelief. “Are _you_ going to kill them? They’re your people, Jon. Has she stripped you of your honor already?”

He grits his teeth, anger pulsing in his veins at the mention of his bloody honor. _It’s only honorable when it suits them._ “And your honor? Have you brought these men with you just to be killed?”

The tension between them is broken but the sound of wheels against gravel, both turning to see Bran’s carriage stop just behind them.

Sansa steps towards the carriage and Jon steps back to Daenerys’ side, resisting the terrible want he has to take her hand into his own again. He looks at her, pride replacing the anger as he sees her standing tall and confident, her eyes set on Sansa’s movements. _My Queen._

Sansa pushes Bran’s chair forward, stopping just in front of them. Jon regards his brother with caution, trying read him, trying not to be read by his simultaneously blank and all-knowing gaze.

He hopes his face is just as unrevealing to Bran as Bran’s is to him. It’s somehow worse than when Sansa greeted him. It unsettling, not being aware of where you stand with someone else, not knowing if you can trust them, if they trust you. Especially a brother. He told Sansa of their actions, was it only because she asked? Or did he offer it to help her in her own plans? Did he have a plan of his own?

“It’s good to see you, Jon.” It’s all he says, not a hint of brotherly affection in his words.

He manages to respond with an uncomfortable smile.

He looks back up to his sister, already tired of their silent war, reading to proceed with the rest of whatever would transpire. “If you would follow me, we have rooms ready for you both in the keep. I’m know you must be tired after your long journey.”

“Actually, I thought I might stay out here,” she says, challenging him. “With my men. I’m sure you understand why, I have terrible memories of this city. I’m not looking to add any more.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says, her irritation peeking through the calm. “You’re welcome to do as you wish. However, we do have much to discuss. Expect a few guards to come and escort you to the Red Keep in the next day or two, to begin these talks. I’m sure _you_ understand why, the King and I aren’t too keen on straying far from our duties.”

Her eyes are focused solely on Sansa, meeting the taller girl’s challenge easily. To be escorted through the city by the Queen’s men, little more than a prisoner, would make her look weak, in her eyes and in the eyes of others. It wasn’t ideal, he never wanted to make his sister feel weak, she was far from it, but he didn’t want her to believe she held more power than them. A false air of power made for reckless decisions and stupid mistakes.

Sansa narrows her eyes at Daenerys, her stare full of hatred. “Are you going to take me prisoner as well then? As you have my brother? My sister?”

Behind him, Arya shifts on her feet. He knows she wants to say she wasn’t anyone’s prisoner, but she also doesn’t want to say anything that would play in his wife’s favor.

Daenerys cracks a smile, the only change in her Queenly demeanor. “Neither your brother, nor your sister are my prisoner.”

“Maybe not Arya.”

He lets out a sigh, holding his tongue. He would no doubt have to make all the same declarations to Sansa as he had to everyone else when the time came, he didn’t want to do it out here.

“Sansa, please. We’ve been away from the keep long enough already.”

She darts her eyes to him, completely unimpressed. He doesn’t cower under her scrutinizing gaze, doesn’t feel a shred of uncertainty building in his stomach.

In fact, it’s Sansa who breaks first, tearing her eyes from him to the man beside her, murmuring something to him. The guard gives her a swift nod and heads back to the carriages and begins readying the horses pulling them.

Beside him, his wife’s lets out the tiniest breath of victory, and he’s again tempted by the urge to let his pride be known. He can’t, not here, not while his sister holds the audience of the everyone around them. Any slight would be heard by many and spread quickly, and whispers of dissent could reach their ears before the day was over.

“Wonderful,” Daenerys says in approval at Sansa’s decision to follow them. “Now, you can accompany us through the city, or you may follow your carriage straight to the keep, though I can assure you that your things will make it there safely on their own.”

“My men?”

“They’re welcome to set up camp here with the other Stark men, we have food and drink being brought out. Or they may come with us.” He answers, trying to follow Daenerys polite diplomatic lead.

“They’ll stay, though I hope you understand that I _will_ be bringing my own guard.”

“Of course.”

Sansa looks almost comically angry, though she keeps her composure.

Daenerys turns first, saying something in Valyrian to Grey Worm. He looks like he wants to protest, but decides against it, stepping away to follow her orders.

“What did you tell him?” He asks curiously.

“To ensure that our men keep a fair distance. Sansa’s playing nice, we won’t treat her like a child who needs a scolding so long as she doesn’t behave as one. Hopefully that keeps the tantrums at bay.”

He doesn’t like the idea, but he agrees with her anyway. Whatever Sansa does would affect her the most, it scares her the most, so he would follow along with whatever choices she made in regard to his sister. He would willingly let her lead the way through the uncertainty. After all, his own course of action had only ended in hurt and regret.

“I would like to go straight to the castle, Jon. I’m afraid my chair will slow the walk immensely.” Again, his voice is void of anything. He has yet to look in Dany’s direction at all, though Jon isn’t sure if he should be glad for it or not. “We’ll talk soon?”

He doesn’t want to, he isn’t looking forward to the talk, not having the slightest clue as to what Bran would say, but he nods anyway.

As Bran is taken back to his carriage, Daenerys takes her leave and walks past Arya, and he takes quick steps to catch up, acting as her guard as much as her partner. They had men leading them through the streets, but Jon still found himself scanning the area, his hand open and ready to unsheathe his sword at a moment’s notice. He trusted her guards implicitly, but if something should happen, he would only place the blame on himself.

It’s a slow walk, a quiet one. He expects to hear words being exchanged between his sisters, but they say nothing. He has to turn around more than once to confirm that they’re still behind them. When he does turn, he sees a range of emotions cross Sansa’s face as she looks around. She looks horrified, disgusted, angry. He accepts all of it, he can’t deny the sight is anything but horrible, even without bodies littering the streets. What he can’t accept is what she settles on. The final time he looks at her she looks calm, calculating. Her eyes are fixed on the woman in front of her.

He’s on edge again, preparing himself for the worst. He was beginning to understand that Sansa’s visit may very well end in estrangement between them. She would leave as Wardeness of the North or nothing at all, but he could say with confidence that she would never return South, that she would never speak to him again. He feels the slightest twinge of pain at the upcoming loss, though it’s nothing compared to the elation of the upcoming arrival.

As if reading his thoughts, Dany shuffles closer to him, brushing the back of her gloved hand against his. He takes it eagerly, her strong grasp already pulling him away from that edge.

“Sansa?” He asks softly.

“We’ve already won this particular battle. Besides, what good is being a wife if I can’t hold my husband’s hand whenever I wish?”

“You’ll hear no arguments from me.”

She steals a glance in his direction, her Queenly façade falling away just for him. She smiles, her eyes free from the clouds he feared Sansa would bring with her. Relief fills him. It was only a first meeting, they would have many more to come, but his actions hadn’t scared her, hadn’t fed into the insecurities she had. It was a small accomplishment, but he revels in it.

“The streets are empty.” Sansa comments, letting her words bleed with contempt.

“Very observant, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys replies, not bothering to look back at her. “We’ve given the workers a day of rest. They’ll all be in the main courtyard just outside the Red Keep by now, or out in their own camps, as you saw.”

“And the people? Surely you can’t have killed them all.”

At that, Daenerys fingers dig into his own. He grips hers just as tightly. She wasn’t alone against his sister. Not anymore.

“The people are there as well, my Lady,” he can hear the cracks in the smooth reply. “Alive and well.”

“There’s a feast,” he clarifies. “We didn’t have a large reception after our marriage. Instead, we thought we might have an informal one to include the people. We have an impressive spread of things to eat, and Prince Quentyn was kind enough to bring plenty of wine.”

“Wasting food stores on an unnecessary feast isn’t a smart way to ration food.”

“Don’t concern yourself with our food stores, Sansa,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as he can. “Your focus should be on the North, ensuring that the people have enough to eat. If I remember correctly, Daenerys and I will have to aid you in those efforts as well. The North has had grain shortages for a while now.”

When she doesn’t respond right away, he turns his head to see her staring at him now, her eyes unreadable. “It seems we have much to discuss, Jon.”

“We do,” he nods. “And we will. Tonight, if you wish.”

“The sooner the better. I don’t want to be here long.”

As they near the keep, the hum of voices starts to carry over to them. He keeps his eyes forward the rest of the way, reminding himself that the situation with Sansa isn’t the only one they need to attend to. As much as he planned for the event to take place as she arrived, he still wants to ensure its success. They need the people on their side, even if it’s just in the form of reluctant acceptance. Sansa doesn’t need to see the fear and mistrust they hold for his wife, he only hopes the jovial nature of the occasion was enough to wipe it from their faces, even just for today.

They follow the turns of the streets and soon enough the courtyard comes into view, the large space filled to the brim with people. Many spill out into the street itself, lining along the building walls, food and drink in hand. When they’re spotted, most of the talk ceases. As close as she is, he can feel Daenerys tense up beside him and he prays to all the gods that outright hostility isn’t shown to her in the presence of his sister.

As they pass the silent observers, no one makes a move to stand and bow, or even tilt their head in respect. With all they’ve been focused on, it’s not something he or Daenerys have come to expect. Amongst the people he hardly feels like a monarch, and all she hopes for is that her efforts would be met with a softer reception. In this moment, he thinks it’s a good thing. Sansa isn’t stupid, she must know that Daenerys’ relationship with the people is delicate. Feigned respect would only feed into her belief that his wife is a tyrant.

His eyes wander to the scattered mix of soldiers and citizens, meeting the stare of a man he’d worked beside more than once. The man lifts his small ceramic cup, only slightly, in Jon’s direction, before finishing it off. Jon bows his head in thanks, more grateful than he thought he ever could be for the small gesture. Far from enthusiastic, but it allows him to believe that perhaps they could have a smooth transition into their reign.

Before they step further into the open space of the courtyard, Grey Worm moves to Daenerys’ other side while the outer guards step closer to their party. He briefly checks to makes sure his sisters are well-protected, though he wasn’t truly concerned with Arya being just as observant as him.

As they sink further into the crowd, he’s happy for the lack of attention they get. Many were clumped into groups, sharing the warmth of the pits of fire. Those standing made way for their party with little fuss, some without even a glance in their direction, already knowing that a large host of Unsullied or Dothraki meant Daenerys was walking by them.

He can see her smiling to those who meet her eye, some returning it awkwardly, though most don’t smile back. It hurts him to see, but he knew better than to expect people fall at her feet in thanks for expensive wine and savory foods. They near the large tables where an array of Dothraki and Westerosi women are working side by side to ensure the food is being properly rationed.

He can’t resist turning to look at Sansa again and is pleased to see confusion mixing in with everything else she’s feeling. It’s not what she expected. It’s probably not what she planned for.

At Daenerys’ command their party is brought to a stop at the base of the steps, her men spreading out, creating a perimeter of safety. Sansa keeps her own men close, three Northmen, all eyeing Jon with betrayal and suspicion. His sister’s influence, he suspects.

Before the heaviness of silence can settle, Ser Davos walks over, an unworried smile on his face. “Your Grace,” he nods to Jon before turning to Dany. “Your Grace.”

“It’s good to see you, Ser Davos.” Sansa interjects, offering him a genuine smile.

“And you, m’lady,” His eyes crinkle as he returns it, though he can sense the tension rolling off her body. “I hope your journey wasn’t too difficult.”

“The weather was kind to us, Ser.”

“Everything seems to be running smoothly, Ser Davos,” Dany praises after their exchange, her voice filled with relief and a gentle hopefulness. “Have you had any trouble at all?”

“Some tense moments here and there, but nothing that can’t be smoothed over with the promise of wine.”

“And,” she starts, her confidence wavering. “How has the news been received?”

“They…” he starts slowly, and Jon pulls her closer to him, ready to comfort her should Davos dampen her mood. “They’re very pleased with your choice of husband, Your Grace.”

He doesn’t expand, he doesn’t need to. It’s the best outcome they could have hoped for. He wants to wrap his arms around her, remind her how wonderful she is. How extraordinary.

She swallows, plastering a forced smile on her lips. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Where is Tyrion?” Jon asks, trying to stop the awkward tension from building.

“Tyrion?” Sansa asks in disbelief behind him.

_She counted on him betraying Daenerys. She probably expected him to be dead or imprisoned._

“Well if it’s all right with you, Your Grace, I left him in charge of the children. Not a large supply of wine available to them. Thought it would be safe.”

Dany chuckles at his words, though he can see it’s a bit forced, trying her best not to let her confidence be shaken. He wishes more than anything that he could absorb her insecurities and stand smaller at her side. He would do it without a second thought if it meant she would never again question how strong she is.

“Smart idea, though he may eat himself to death with those sweets. Daenerys _did_ say they could eat themselves sick if they wanted to.” They all know what he’s doing, how he’s trying to soften her image to them. It’s weak and most likely ineffective, he admits, but he would never stop giving her credit for the little things she does. Even if no one else ever did, he would acknowledge them.

She squeezes his hand, Davos gives him a somewhat pitiful smile, Arya let’s out a quiet snort. Sansa stays quiet and he doesn’t bother to turn and look at her. In the back of his mind he knows her opinions had the potential to become more than just a nuisance, but he finds it easy to ignore the worry, at least for now.

“I’d rather he eats than drinks his way to an early grave,” she says, the familiar annoyance coating her words whenever she speaks of her former Hand. “Do we have enough fires going? Perhaps we should bring out more blankets…do we have any left?” She trails off as she spots a middle-aged man approaching them.

He looks at her, and he feels his body tense as he sees the worry on her face. His first instinct is to protect her. He takes a step forward, his hand wrapping around Longclaw, ready to kill this man should he try and harm his wife, but she surprises him by trying to tug him back.

The man doesn’t get too much closer before he’s gently blocked by an arakh. He stops, his eyes never moving from Dany.

She clears her throat, before calling out to him, the hallow conviction scraping against his ears painfully. “Hello, Ser,” She says, taking a small step closer. He feels himself begin to sweat with dread. “Is there anything we can help you with?”

He stares, his face twitching with anger. Or was it grief?

When he does move, Jon fights every instinct he has to unsheathe his sword. If he raised his weapon against an unarmed citizen, he would do more harm than good.

He raises his cup, seemingly in toast to Daenerys, before he makes a show of pouring out the Dornish wine onto the muddied pavement, never taking her eyes off of her. When its empty, he flings it in her direction, and Jon acts on instinct to push her behind him quickly, though the wooden cup wasn’t thrown with enough power to hurt her. It lands with a load clank at his feet, the sound echoing loudly in his ears.

For only a moment, the world falls quiet around them. He can hear her taking shaking breathes, and his heart breaks for her. She isn’t angry at all, she’s hurt. But he’s livid. He stares at the man, now in the tight grip of two guards, a sickeningly pleased look on his face. _He wants to be killed. He’s counting on it._

Daenerys grabs his arm and lightly pushes him away, gently telling her guards to release the man.

“Dany…” he starts to protest, but she shakes her head at him. He looks at her, her eyes full of disappointment and defeat. He can see the soft sheen of tears clouding them.

She looks away quickly, turning to face the man again. She’s clenching her jaw tightly, trying to look strong, trying not to let the tears fall. She gives him another smile, it’s apologetic, sorrowful. He stares.

“Why don’t you come with me, Ser,” Davos says with a hasty cheerfulness, walking up to him. He grabs his arm and gently tries to pull the man away. “We’ll get some food to warm you up.”

Ser Davos doesn’t have to make a large effort to pull him away, but he continues to stare at Daenerys, confusion replacing the satisfaction, mixing with his anger, his agony.

While they disappear in the crowd of people, Jon notices just how many witnesses the incident had. Some whisper to each other, some are looking up into the sky. Most have their eyes on her, waiting to see what she’d do. Behind him, Sansa watches her closely, and Arya is intently watching the crowd, her hand resting lightly over Needle.  

Dany ignores them all, or tries to, and giving him a weak smile.

“You shouldn’t have let him go.” He says softly.

“It was a wooden cup, Jon,” she says in a flat tone. “I killed his family. His wife, his children…it was a kinder than I deserve.”

He sighs, accepting the truth she believes in her own words. Perhaps in time she’ll come to feel differently.

“I think I’ll go and see the children,” she suddenly declares, loud enough for the rest of their company to hear. She turns to Sansa. “My Lady, you’re welcome to explore the city, or I can have you escorted to your rooms if you wish. But please, keep your guards with you.” He can hear the genuine concern in her voice, and it warms his heart. He wonders how she can still be so kind when it’s never returned as freely to her.

She turns to leave before Sansa can respond but he stops her, taking her hand again. “I’ll go with you?”

She shakes her head, standing taller despite the sadness in her eyes. He can see the determination though, just behind it, fighting through.

He bows his head in acceptance, leaning forward to press his lips gently to her brow. “I love you.”

She closes her eyes, nodding slightly, as if she’s trying to absorb his words, remember them to be true. When she opens them, the sadness is just a little bit fainter. “I’ll come and find you.”

With that, she takes her leave, her guards closer to her than before, Grey Worm’s grip on his spear so firm, his knuckles turn white.

He has to count his breathes to stay calm as she disappears from his sight, reminding himself that she’ll be safe, that _they’ll_ be safe.

“Has she added actress to her list of titles?” Sansa asks coldly.

Before he can answer, Arya speaks up. “Not here, Sansa.”

She turns her head sharply to Arya. “Are you afraid to cause trouble for her?” she asks incredulously.

“No. But it isn’t just her, is it? Jon is married to her now. He’s _King_. It would cause just as much trouble for him.”

“Oh, believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” she responds, turning her eyes to him. “Just _what_ possessed you to make such a stupid decision?”

“As Arya said, not here.” He says, unfazed.

“Then we have nothing to talk about now,” She says. “I won’t stand here in the cold to watch a pitiful façade of generosity. I’m going to make sure Bran is settled in his rooms.”

“Of course,” he nods, mustering up a fake smile. “You _will_ join us for supper, though.”

She bristles at his command, her features twitching in anger, before a cold smile graces her lips. “Of course.”

“You won’t win her over that way.” Arya comments as Sansa is escorted up the steps.

“I don’t need to win her over,” he replies. “Appeasing Sansa isn’t one of our priorities.”

“It should be, she could give you a lot of trouble.”

“We won’t let it get that far. She’ll soon realize she’s losing the fight she so desperately wants to play. The North _needs_ the South, Sansa doesn’t _need_ a crown.”

“That isn’t why she wants independence, Jon,” she says, defending her sister. “The North has suffered for years under Southern rulers, and by the looks of it, it’ll be more of the same with your Queen.”

“It isn’t just her, is it?” he responds, throwing her words back at her. “I’m just as much a Northerner as she is. The only reason she has an issue with it is because she thinks the wrong Northerner wears a crown,” he looks to Arya, his voice tired. “The North will not suffer anymore, Arya. I _can_ promise you that. I understand the people, I understand what they need.”

“Your wife doesn’t though. She isn’t even from Westeros. You may understand the people but how do you know she’ll let you take care of them?”

“ _Let_ me?” he sighs heavily. They could talk about this tonight, as a family. “Arya, please join us for supper as well. You’ll be able to voice your concerns, yell at me, curse at me all you want, but not here.”

“ _She’ll_ be there?”

“She will.”

“Can I yell at her?”

“I would prefer you didn’t, but she’s told me repeatedly not to protect her from your antics.”

She smirks, but he can tell she doesn’t find anything funny about it at all. “Supper could be fun, then.”

She starts to walk away, but he calls out to her before she disappears from his sight as well.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Her brows furrow in confusion. “For what?”

He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass her, but he looks down at Needle. _Thank you for trying._

When she realizes what he’s referring to, her faces twists into a scowl, and she turns away to depart, her strides longer and quicker.

He smiles to himself, feeling hopeful for the first time that his relationship with Arya might not be as strained as he thinks it will be, that they could find common ground in loving and protecting his child.

\---------------

“Look, look, look, Your Grace!” one of the children cry, pushing up a small wooden soldier towards her.

She looks at the little girl, wanting to smile at her excitement, share in her joy at such a simple object, but she can’t. All she can focus on is the terrible, angry, red, scars of burned skin wrapped around her neck, cupping her cheek, disappearing under the fabric of her wool gown.

The little girl doesn’t seem to care that her once smooth skin is marred with scars that will never fully disappear. She doesn’t seem to care that Daenerys is the one who gave them to her. She probably doesn’t know, doesn’t truly understand.

Their ignorance had been a blessing to her before, the place she disappeared to when everyone else got to be too much, reminded her _too much_ of that day. Now it only confuses her.

She can only think of that man. Even weeks later, she can remember his face when he told her what she’d done to him, how she ran away from it.

He hadn’t died with his family, though she gets the feeling that he isn’t living anymore. His eyes frightened her. Even as he poured the wine onto the ground, as he flung the cup in her direction in a show of disrespect and hatred, she could only see his eyes. She understood the crazed, wide, deep emptiness in them. She knows what it’s like to feel so much and nothing at all.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion startles her, pulling her away from drowning in the depth of her thoughts.

She looks at him, blinking away the haziness she feels. She gives him a quick look, acknowledging his questioning gaze, before quickly turning her attention to the children around her, focusing on their happiness, no matter how much she questions it.

More little toys are shoved in her face as she sits, children crowding around her to tell her what she’s missed, telling her about the gifts they were given even though it wasn’t anyone’s nameday.

She doesn’t look at Tyrion anymore, she won’t acknowledge that his idea was playing out in the sweetest of ways. _They can’t have wine,_ he had said, _but little keepsakes cost next to nothing. This day could be a good memory for them to have._

Her ears eventually drown out their excitement, and she’s forced to look more closely at them, trying to stay as present as possible when all she wants is to understand why she can’t.

_Do they not feel any pain? Don’t they miss their parents? Their brothers and sisters? Their homes?_

She can taste the desperate questions on the edge of her tongue, but before they tumble out of her mouth, the deeper pitch of Tyrion’s voice cuts through the numbness.

“Children, don’t forget to thank Her Grace for the sweets.” He’s taken the spot next to her, and she turns to see him looking at her with the same concern.

She hates that look coming from him. She doesn’t want it.

She’s about to tell him just that when the little voices of happiness and excitement switch to little chants of gratitude.

It’s sounds even worse to her. She doesn’t want it either, their gratitude. It makes her feel wrong, like she’s stealing away the praise that should be going to someone else.

_I don’t deserve this._

The thought is sudden, intrusive. It’s only ever come to her when she thinks about her happiness with Jon. To think it now, out here, disarms her. It feels bigger out here, filling the space, tainting all her efforts.

She rises quickly, smoothing out her coat and composing herself as best as she can. She excuses herself, mustering up as much of a motherly tone as she can, telling them to play and enjoy their time together.

She goes to stand on the outskirts of the little group, next to Grey Worm, rigidly stoic and alert after the incident earlier.

Much to her dismay, Tyrion follows, awkwardly moving to stand beside her, an uncomfortable silence growing between them.

“How did it go with Sansa?”

She doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t deserve to know. Not anymore. Still, who else could she speak to? Jon was firm in his stance, she saw it earlier, the way he stood strong at her side despite his sister’s judgment. She was proud of him, of his efforts. He didn’t do that before, his siblings’ presence weakened them the moment they rode through the gates of Winterfell. But however proud she may be, she knows he might not care about factoring in Sansa’s feelings at all. She tries not to either, but a course so narrow might blind them from obvious problems. Sansa could prove them both wrong and do something so completely foolish and reckless that they’d have no choice but to react accordingly. For Jon’s sake, she didn’t want it to get that far. But Tyrion? He hated her, and she didn’t think he’d waver in that. Perhaps having someone like that in her midst would keep her grounded in her reality, keep her from coveting a future with her people that she would never have.

She feels the loss of her friends now more than ever. All she has are two extremes, it seems. Those who are devoted fully to her, would always support her, and those who hate her with everything they have. But Missandei, Ser Jorah…they would remind her, oppose her, be disappointed in her, hate her even, but they would never betray her. They might still even love her, if they were still here.

“She hates me, same as all the rest. I won’t know how much until we speak more later.” The coldness in her own voice appeases her. The sadness is gone, and so she knows the hope is gone as well. Jon wants her to hope, but it exhausts her, and she’s using all her energy to keep herself from giving up completely. She could hope later, when it was just him and her and she didn’t have to think about all the rest.

Tyrion doesn’t say anything in return. They watch the children in silence, watch them as they play and whisper and eat and live, naive and oblivious to the wary glances thrown her way as word spreads of the incident.

She wants them to be young forever, to be so distracted and enamored with simple things that they never pause long enough to examine their own bodies covered in horrendous scars, that they don’t feel the absence of the people she took away from them. It’s impossible though, and as she watches them, she already begins to feel the loss of what’s in front of her. _It’s better to feel it now,_ she muses. _So it won’t hurt so much when it finally happens._

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, numb but hyperaware of every look and whisper that passes her, a bystander to her own experience. She sees the smiles, hears the laughs, but they blur completely when she sees _those_ eyes again. It’s a stare she sees in several people, young and old, though no one else is as consumed as that man, as no one else makes a move to approach her.

At some point she grows frustrated with herself, annoyed even, at her inability to focus on the positives. Because, despite that man, despite the stares, most pay her no mind at all. They eat and drink and indulge without any qualms. There are no toasts in her honor, no well wishes or swears of fealty, but she’s grateful for it. Hearing the children thank her was bad enough, but having adults, people who fully understand what she’s done…she didn’t want to think about how it would make her feel. Their indifference meant they didn’t care enough to oppose her, not yet at least.

That thought _does_ calm the brewing storm of self-deprecation, enough to let her smile when she sees them smile.

Tyrion doesn’t leave her side, but she isn’t sure why. He doesn’t speak to her, doesn’t look at her, but he doesn’t leave. When the children come up to speak to her, he answers, meets their excitement in a way she can’t. She’s thankful, but she won’t tell him that.

More time passes, minutes or hours, she isn’t sure, but the children begin to tire, huddling together and lazily eating whatever is left of their treats.

“I should take them back to the buildings, I suppose,” Tyrion starts, breaking the silence between them. “Before it gets too cold.”

She still doesn’t look at him, but she nods her approval.

“And I think…you should get back to your husband, Your Grace,” his words are more tentative this time, but she does look at him, irritated that he would be bold enough to offer her advice. “That was the point of this, wasn’t it? To display a prosperous union that would benefit the Kingdoms? That’s unlikely to be the opinion if you aren’t by your husband’s side. It could have the opposite effect, in fact, if people don’t see the affection between—”

“Alright, Tyrion,” she snaps, annoyed at his growing confidence in his words as if they hold any value to her anymore.

Still, she begrudgingly admits to herself that he’s right, she and Jon should be together. As much as she didn’t want to be seen as weak, as a Queen ready to bend to will of her King, she knows she needs to be less frightening to their people. Maybe the best way for that to happen was to let them believe her will was weaker than it was. The notion left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Jon would never exploit that narrative should they choose to pursue it. It might be best if they do.

A small, weak, part of her wants to ask Tyrion his opinion on the matter.

He steps away from her, though, before she has to scold that part for suggesting the idea.

She smiles as kindly as she can as the children pass her, trying her best to focus her attention on their momentary happiness rather than her gnawing guilt. As Tyrion leaves, he gives her that same sad smile, less hidden than before. It only angers her. He doesn’t care for her, he betrayed her, more than once. He has no right to look as if he cares about her anymore.

She feels the absence of the children’s warmth right away. Now she’s just surrounded by the people who are all too aware of what she’s doing, what the feast is meant to be doing.

She takes a deep breath, standing taller. _Don’t give up, don’t give in._ Every day the feelings push harder against her mind, and every day it gets more and more tempting to give into the hurt, but she would fail so many in doing so. She would fail Jon; she would fail Grey Worm. She would fail _them_ , Jorah and Missandei. And she would fail herself.

Strangely, the thought of letting herself down is the one that fills her with that familiar burn. She steels herself, hardening her exterior, willing the stares and the unspoken criticisms to bounce off her, as she was once able to do before.

“Take me to Jon.” She tells Grey Worm, pleased with the coolness of her command.

The rest of the day passes without incident. She and Jon slowly make their way around the crowded courtyard, talking with those who invite conversation, and politely moving those who dare to be more hostile.

To her surprise, it’s Jon’s patience that’s tested by the people who are less than kind. She can feel his arm tense under her hand, she can hear the slight change in his tone whenever she’s blatantly looked over in favor of him. She tries not to let those instances get to her, when the people are pleased to call him King and refuse to call her Queen. It’s difficult not to, though, and she has to reprimand herself a handful of times when she lets their disdain affect her and she sinks into his side. _I’m a dragon._ Still, she keeps a polite smile with everyone, overly friendly where Jon is terse, though it does little to salvage whatever interaction they were in the midst of and is more often than not met with confusion. It saddens her, the idea that they think her incapable of simple kindness.

While she is, for the most part, successful in maintaining her composure, she reminds herself constantly to balance it out with the softness she had admittedly lost touch with. She doesn’t try to hide her love for Jon behind cordial masks or pull away from him when eyes linger on their closeness. When they speak to each other as they walk, they lean their heads in close, the private nature of their stances drawing curious eyes every time.

She makes a pointed effort not to laugh or smile too widely, not that it’s a difficult task. Even though she’s holding herself up over the dark swirl of emotions that linger inside her, she can’t ignore why they’re there. To walk around and act as if nothing is amiss would be an insult to everyone else, to that man and the family he mourns. She would feel wrong to do so anyway, if she were able. She feels wrong for doing so before, in those first few days, disgusted that she ever could.

Sansa isn’t seen for the rest of the day, and Daenerys tries not to worry too much about her absence. She refuses to let her mind run wild with assumptions, reminding herself that she could better judge the girl after their supper. Her anxiety is further tempered when Jon informs her that her and Grey Worm have also given her a personal guard, an added layer of safety as well as someone who could watch her movements and keep them informed of anything suspicious. She could take private meetings, whisper in corners, and they wouldn’t know what she said, only that she had said something and who she’d said it too. Arya wasn’t too happy with Jon when she’d overheard that information, but she didn’t argue back when he asked if _she_ would trust Sansa to be left to her own devices in their situation.

And Arya. The girl never ventured too far off from their little party, always taking a small lap around the area whenever they stopped, walking behind them as they moved. She didn’t speak to Daenerys at all, and only spoke to Jon a handful of times, though she didn’t look bored, only focused. Daenerys didn’t dare to think Arya was with them to keep _her_ safe, but she couldn’t think of any other reason for her presence. Jon was armed, and more than capable of keeping her and himself safe. Her circle of guards was a second line of defense, impenetrable up against the crown of unarmed citizens. It was the only explanation really, but she was careful not to let herself hope for an amicable relationship with Jon’s sister. _She isn’t protecting me; she’s protecting the babe. Jon’s babe. As soon as our child is born, she could put me in harm’s way herself._ Even to her the last thought was half-hearted. She didn’t think Arya would kill her, not anymore. Even through the emotionless mask Arya wore, Dany can see the love she has for Jon. No, she was safe around Arya, if only for Jon’s sake.

It grows colder as the sun sinks behind the city walls, and people begin to abandon the courtyard for the confined warmth of the shelters. Others stay, circling pits of fire and cupping cups of warmed cider, courtesy of several Northmen, and huddling under provided blankets. On a few occasions, Jon is waved over to the little groups, all of whom either pointedly ignore her presence or simply stare at her with cautious eyes, and she begins to feel less of the hurt and more of the defeat. He never accepts the invitation, only saying a few words in response, and giving her an apologetic smile. She smiles back, though it becomes less in reassurance and more in acceptance.

But once, only once, are they both invited to share a fire. _Oi, Your Grace, why don’t and your Queen come sit!_ He was a Northerner, though not all of his companions surrounding the fire were. She suspected he and Jon were well acquainted by the friendly way the man slapped his back when they’d made their way over. Admittedly, the man was a bit drunk, but his weakened inhabitation had granted her the acknowledgement she’d been seeking the entire day. She managed to keep her nervous feelings well-hidden, though she’d learned earlier that day that whenever her mask of composure did slip to show her insecurity, the responses where less harsh, the stares less severe. She hated to think they pitied her, but she was at the point where she was grateful for anything that was not hate.

Room was made for the pair of them at the end of a bench, Jon taking a seat by the man that called them over while she took the end. A few seconds of silence fell over the group before they each returned to their own conversations when neither of them made a move to address them with awkward pleasantries. She leaned into him, sharing his warmth, while he spoke quietly to the man beside him.

She stared into the fire, comforted by its warmth, comforted by Jon’s firm grip on her hand. She felt unnoticed and almost unimportant to everyone else. In the circumstances, it was better than the alternative, but she hated the way she accepted it so easily. Accepting pity and anger was easier than accepting how little people actually cared for her existence at all.

_We were extraordinary. We filled people with wonder and aw. And now they prefer to think me invisible._

_It will be slow and it won’t be easy._ She hears Jon’s words on an endless loop.

They sat for almost half an hour, Jon doing his best to extend the conversation to her. She smiles at his efforts, though she only engages with him, unwilling to push the others and shatter their fragile, momentary acceptance of her.

It’s Arya who pulls them from the group, reminding Jon of the hour, hinting that Sansa won’t be too pleased if they held her late for supper. No one rose when they did, though they were bid farewell with slight bows of heads, eyes darting between them. Daenerys doesn’t let the moment pass her, and she looks at each person with gratitude. It may not have been just for her, but at least it wasn’t just for Jon. At least their day led to something of a change. She can hear louder voices scattered throughout the courtyard, folks well into their cups and growing more boisterous. She’s glad to leave now, before someone becomes too bold, and does more than throw a cup at her feet.

Before they make their way up the steps, Jon spots Ser Davos and waves him over.

“Where is that man?”

She sighs, gripping his arm. It happened, and she’s trying to move on from it. There was no use of lingering when she’s sure is isn’t going to be an isolated incident. She expected they would become well acquainted with slights. “Jon…”

“Dany, I need to be sure he isn’t a danger to you. If you don’t want him punished, I won’t push you on the matter, but I need to know.”

Ser Davos nods, understanding Jon’s uneasiness. “I spent some time with him, You Grace, let him get his tears out. He’s angry, to be sure, but I don’t believe he’s a real threat to the Queen. Don’t think he has it in him. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, to ease your worries.”

Instead of comforting her, his words pull at her heart, and she closes her eyes in shame. Breaking the wheel never meant breaking her people, to hurt them so badly they didn’t have the will to act on their anger. It’s a mercy to her, really, but perhaps it was a mercy she didn’t deserve. She’d felt as broken as that man, had lost everything she cared for, yet she couldn’t place the blame on any single person. He could, and yet he didn’t react in violence towards her, nor did he lash out at faceless strangers.

Even worse, she knows he thought that such an act would earn him a death sentence. He probably expected to be taken to Drogon soon after to be turned to ash. He probably craved the release of being blown away in the wind like everyone he cared for.

She’d chosen fear. She told Jon as much, yet there was nothing in her heart that stood behind it. She thinks it was the wrong choice. The worst choice.

“Thank you, Davos.” Jon replies, his voice filled with gratitude. His response mercifully pulls her away from her thoughts, and she feels the guilt as she eagerly packs them away to tend to later.   

\---------------

Jon had believed it would be better to dine with his siblings in a more private setting, anyone could overhear in the courtyard. So, he had their meal brought to a small room, intact enough to pass for a modest dining hall. He expected harsh words from Sansa, yet she hadn’t spoken a word beyond a curt greeting. She and Jon sat across from Sansa and Arya, Bran’s chair at the end of the table between him and Sansa. The tension was almost suffocating, yet she felt anchored by the weight of Jon’s hand in her own, resting together in her lap.

She had been nervous to dine with the Starks, to have all of Jon’s siblings in front of him, though she hadn’t let those nerves turn slightly fearful until she and Jon made their way through the corridors from their chambers. It could all change so quickly, as it had at Winterfell. They could say the right things and Jon could pull away from her if their words touched something in him.

The thought is so absurd and insulting to her husband that she can now say with certainty that it’s only herself she fears will make it true. Whatever they said, it would all be rooted in truth. However they felt, it wouldn’t be unjust. Perhaps she only fears such a thing because she thinks it’s how he _should_ feel. Perhaps she fears that he’ll realize that his love should not enough to move past what she’s done.

To her surprise, it’s Brandon Stark who unnerves her. He eats slowly, disinterest clear on his features. He would move his eyes around before narrowing in on someone, or something. She’d been subjected to his piercing stare more than once, but he never gave anything away any of his thoughts. He looks at her as if her knows all her secrets, all her fears, yet his gaze is also grossly curious, as if he’s trying to decipher her.

“Bran, stop.” Jon snaps, when she shifts uncomfortably under Bran’s stare.

The odd boy blinks and turns his eyes to Jon. “Sorry.”

It’s all he says before he looks back down at his soup, his focus seemingly vanishing from the room.

Beside her, Jon clears his throat, before addressing Sansa in a stiff voice. “I trust your rooms are acceptable?”

“They’re fine.”

Her tone angers Dany. Even when she’d arrived, she held no warmth for her brother, nothing in her eyes that conveyed love or affection for Jon.

He sighs, dropping his hand onto the table. On her lap, she feels his thumb softy stroke across her own. “Sansa, we won’t get anything done if you insist on acting like a child.”

Her spoon drops from her grip, the sound echoing in the small room. She looks at Jon in angry disbelief. “Like a child? Forgive me if I haven’t been particularly cordial, but I’ve grown tired of feigning friendliness with tyrants.”

“Then we can start there,” she says, to her own surprise. “I’m not a tyrant, Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, please, don’t insult my intelligence. You’re exactly like your father,” she bites back, her cold blue eyes darting to her, full of hatred. “Perhaps you’ll continue to follow in his footsteps and burn a few Starks for your own delight.”

“ _Sansa_ …” Jon starts, but she pulls on his hand, signaling him to stop. She doesn’t need him to defend her.

“You’re Jon’s family, I’m not going to harm a hair on your head unless you do something to earn it.”

“Oh? And how does Jon feel about that?” she says, leaning forward. “Or is he not allowed a say in his own _family’s_ welfare.”

“She isn’t going to touch you Sansa, I won’t allow it,” his grip tightens on her hand at the same time a smirk starts to form on Sansa’s lips. “Unless you do something to earn it.”

Dany feels a strange delight in watching Sansa’s face fall. The girl clearly hoped her appeal to family would sway him, yet his hand stayed firmly in hers. _I’m his family, too._

“And what, exactly, would earn it?” she asks through her teeth, her jaw clenched tight.

Across from her, Arya leans back in her chair, clearly having no intention of intervening in the conversation between Jon and Sansa. She looks at Bran again, a look akin to boredom on his face. He wasn’t going to interrupt them either. _Good,_ she thinks. _He doesn’t deserve to have his family team up against him._

“It all very simple, Sansa,” Jon begins, leaning forward to match his sister’s stance. “You’ll not look for ways to depose her, you’ll not speak treason to anyone, you’ll not rebel against the crown. You will be named Wardeness, officially, and you will aide us in peacefully bringing the North back into the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa lets out a bitter chuckle, nearly rolling her eyes. “You know as well as I do that that cannot happen. The North has suffered under Southern rulers for far too long. We will not continue to suffer. And I certainly won’t have a part in making the North kneel to another mad Targaryen.”

“Are you referring to me or Daenerys?”

“You didn’t massacre a city, did you?”

She hates when they get to this part, the thing everyone says when they justify their hostility and mistrust. She hates that with every encounter, she feels less and less defensive and more shame. She can’t say it’s not true, she can’t say she was protecting her own armies, defending anyone. _How do I explain it?_ She can’t, _won’t_ , even explain it to herself. She knows why, in a way, but to form the sentences, to say it aloud and defend her actions, it won’t be enough for them. It would only make all her vulnerabilities and fears visible to people who would only spit on them. It wouldn’t be enough for her, either.

“No, I didn’t,” he concedes. “But I am King, now. Rebelling against her is rebelling against me, your _family_.”

“The North won’t kneel to you either, you’re little more than a traitor to your own people. You bent the knee to a tyrant, you married a tyrant, and you never once asked your people what they wanted.”

“Asked the people or asked you?” he bites back. “She saved the North. We couldn’t have defeated the Night King without her, we could—”

“Arya killed the Night King. Not her.”

“And how do you think she was able to do that? Without her armies on the front line, Winterfell would have been overrun in a matter of minutes. Without her dragons, without _her_ , in the sky, the Night King would have never been unseated from Viserion. She fought her own dragon for the sake of the North, because I asked her to. Because she saw the enemy and knew we needed to work together to defeat it.”

She wants to smile under his acknowledgment of all she’d done for the North, for _him_ , but she can’t. All she can think is, _Why couldn’t you say this before? Why?_  She knows things could have turned out differently if he had defended her then as passionately as he did now. Maybe the praise wouldn’t have fallen on deaf ears.

“That may be true, but it doesn’t matter now. The North won’t care,” she turns to Dany. “The North will never kneel to you after what you’ve done. Perhaps you thought getting Jon to marry you would win you the North, but it’s not that simple. All you’ve done it turn his own people against him.”

“And I’m sure you did nothing to stop that from happening,” she says, her voice strong and sure. “You turned against him as soon as he told you he bent the knee. Instead of being thankful that your brother was successful, you resented him for what it cost _you._ ”

“Don’t presume to—”

“Am I wrong? Why else would you be so upset to gain an ally? Someone who pledged to protect your home?”

“He shouldn’t have given up so easily, he gave away the Kingdom because he loved you.”

“Sansa,” Jon starts, irritation dominating his tone. “I love her, aye, but you insult me if you believe I bent the knee because of it.”

“You gave me no other explanation. I asked and you said—”

“I never said I did it because I love her.”

“Well, you didn’t deny it.”

She looks at Jon, a mix of confusion and anger swirling in her head. _He let her believe it was only for love?_

“I…” he sighs, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Daenerys pledged herself and her armies after she saved us beyond the wall, before I bent the knee,” Sansa isn’t quick enough to mask the slight look of surprise on her face at that information. _Jon didn’t tell her that either._ She loosens her grip on his hand, intent on pulling away from him, but he only holds her tighter. _“_ I did it because I admired her, because she proved herself to be someone worth following. Love only made that decision that much easier.”

She tries again, gently tugging her hand away, and this time he loosens his grip. She glances at him to see a flash of hurt in his eyes before they steel over and he turns back to face Sansa.

“So, you had no reason to bend the knee. The lords named you King because they trusted you and believed in you and you gave it away because of your own feelings.”

He slams his hand down onto the table in frustration. “For fucks sake, Sansa! I did what I thought was right. Daenerys allowed us to mine the Dragonglass after I’d been nothing but a nuisance the first time we met, she swore to aid us in the great war and asked for nothing in return. She’d given me everything I asked for and more without any compromise from me. What else could I have offered her to show my gratitude?”

“If she didn’t ask for anything, you shouldn’t have offered anything!” Sansa replies, her voice slightly raised.

“That’s not how you build alliances.”

Sansa opens her mouth to counter again, but Arya places a hand on her arm. “He’s right, Sansa,” she looks at Arya in surprise, but her eyes are on her brother, understanding finally peeking through her hard exterior. She lets out a defeated sigh. “I don’t like it either, but what kind of King would he be if he just took and took and offered nothing in return?”

“A smart one. A loyal one.”

“A selfish one. A poor one,” she counters. “Father wouldn’t be proud if he knew how we showed our thanks.”

It almost sounds like the beginnings of an apology, but Arya doesn’t look at her. It isn’t an apology, it’s an argument, just for Jon’s benefit.

Sansa takes it as such, yanking her arm away from Arya’s touch. “Oh, are you on her side her now? _She isn’t one of us. She’ll never be one of us._ That’s what you said.”

Her words sting. _They never would have accepted me anyway. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t have been enough._

“It’s not that simple anymore, Sansa…” she says, looking at Jon. He shakes his head. _Don’t tell her._ “She’s Jon’s wife, now. And he was your brother before he was ever named King.”

“Brother?” she scoffs, and her anger flares when she feels Jon tense up beside her.

She can’t help but speak up in his defense, uncaring if only upset Sansa even more. “Lady Sansa, you’re only proving my point. You very clearly don’t much emphasis on the concept of family if you’re willing to use his parentage against him so easily. He’s had enough of a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that his entire upbringing was based on a lie, he doesn’t need his own sister using it to hurt him.”

Sansa has the decency to look shamed at her words, her jaw twitching in defiance when her eyes show only guilt. She looks at Jon, he shoulders falling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You are my brother, no matter who your father was.”

Jon shakes his head, appearing unreceptive to her words. “I appreciate your apology, though I can’t say your actions have matched your words.”

She looks confused, hurt. “What do you mean?”

“I made you swear not to tell,” he starts, and she sees dreaded realization come over her features. She’s quick to mask it, bracing herself for the confrontation. “In the Godswood, no less, but you did anyway. You went straight to Tyrion, knowing he wasn’t on the best terms with Daenerys.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing. I told you I didn’t want the throne, that I wouldn’t betray her, and you still went behind my back to try and make it happen.”

“I did it for you, for the North. I saw what everyone else was too blind to see, what Tyrion was starting to see. I tried to save us all and you’re the only person who didn’t do what was right.”

“You didn’t do it for me, Sansa, but you did do it for the North. You thought if I became King, I would grant the north independence and you would be named Queen,” she averts her eyes at his assessment. “I would have been forced onto a throne that I didn’t want, chained to a title I never asked for, but that wouldn’t have mattered to you so long as you got what you wanted, right?”

She can’t say his words didn’t hurt, that they didn’t conjure up a swell of guilt.

“You’re King now.” Sansa says quietly.

“I am,” he says, grabbing at her hand again. She lets him take it. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t believe the North would do well on its own. I know it as well as you. I know the food stores at Winterfell are severely depleted. I know the only way the people won’t starve or freeze to death in their homes is if they have supplies that they can only get from the South.”

“So, we’ll establish a trade agreement, we’ll remain peaceful, but we _will not_ call her Queen.”

“And what makes you think we’ll agree to that?” she asks. “What does the North have to offer us? You didn’t bring anything to aid King’s Landing, so I can only assume the North doesn’t have enough to spare. And how will the other Kingdoms see it? Giving the North independence, allowing you the privilege of calling yourself Queen, all while leeching off the resources of the South? What kind of monarch is that? To take and take and offer nothing in return? I believe your sister said a selfish one. A poor one.”

She can feel Arya’s eyes on her, put out that she’d used her words against her sister, but she doesn’t say a word.

“Perhaps if things had turned out differently, I would have considered your offer.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice but to accept it, my Lady,” she says, understanding pushing through her anger. _She thinks I’m mad, but she hasn’t seen anything to prove otherwise. She’s only been here for less than a day._ “As their leader, you must do what is best for your people, even if it means you don’t get what you desire. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she says with a bitter smile. “The North will find a way to survive. We always have.”

Daenerys can sense that they’ve reached an impasse. Sansa won’t speak to her without letting her hatred shape every word. She doesn’t blame her for it, but she won’t be swayed to compromise so long as Dany is present, her pride is too great.  

She sighs, coming to a decision. “I think I’ll retire, then,” she says, pulling her hand away from Jon’s again. He looks at her, concern in his eyes.

“I’ll go with you—”

“No, please, stay,” she replies, hoping her understand how important it is that he speaks to his siblings alone, no matter how much the idea frightens her. “Finish your meal.”

She stands, not bothering to bid the others goodnight, knowing they don’t care for her polite words. As she walks behind his chair, he catches her wrist, looking up at her. “Wait up for me?”

She smiles, knowing what he’s truly saying. _I’ll come back to you._ “I’ll try.”

He doesn’t seem to care for propriety either, as he places a tender kiss to the inside of her wrist, right above her pulse.

\---------------

He watches her leave, guilt sitting heavy in his chest. He knew that he’d failed her, knew that he could have done more during every instance of their stay at Winterfell, but to have his failures laid out before him, by one of the people who had exploited them, he thinks a thousand apologies every day for the rest of their lives wouldn’t be enough to earn her forgiveness. He was given opportunities, and yet he was too naive or oblivious to see that he needed to use them.

“Why did you marry her?” Sansa spits out as soon as Daenerys disappears from the room.

“Why does it matter to you?” he answers, preparing himself for the barrage of accusations his siblings were about the throw at him. “Anything I say won’t change how you feel.”

“No, probably not,” she agrees. “But I’m desperate to know the state of your own mind. The Jon I knew wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what she’s done, let alone marry her. The Jon I knew who have killed her would have executed her for her crimes the moment he could. I doubt I’m exaggerating when I say her fate has been in _your_ hands every hour of everyday. She trusts you; she sleeps beside you. It would be easy.”

“Would the Jon you knew really murder an unarmed woman in her sleep?” he asks in disgust.

“He wouldn’t sleep beside her at all.”

“Perhaps I’m no longer the Jon you knew then, Sansa.” He says, ignoring the dishonorable nature of her argument in an attempt to control his anger.

“Clearly, you’re not. I can’t say you’ve changed for the better,” she replies, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Still, I want to know. I want to know why you didn’t kill her when it was your duty to do so and I want to know why you married her instead.”

He opens his mouth, ready to be called foolish, but to his surprise, Bran speaks first.

“He was going to kill her,” he answers, staring down at his bowl before turning his eyes to Jon. “He went into the throne room armed with the dagger that was meant to end her life.”

He feels himself grow cold, fearful of Bran’s knowledge of the terrible choice he almost made.

“So, what changed?” Sansa asks, frustrated, her eyes darting between him and Bran. “What did she say? What did she do to trick you onto her side?”

“She didn’t trick me, Sansa,” he says. “Don’t act like I'm nothing but a foolish child. I didn’t do it because it wouldn’t have been right.”

“It _was_ right, she killed innocent people.”

“Aye, it’s simple when you put it like that, but you don’t know her,” he sighs, knowing that she won’t actually hear her words, won’t _listen_. “What she did…it was horrible. I won’t defend it. I don’t know why she did it, if I’m being honest. The Queen I met on Dragonstone wouldn’t have continued to fight when the battle was already won. The woman I knew…all she wanted was to help people.”

“That doesn’t matter, she proved you wrong.”

“She didn’t, that’s still her. She lost herself…somewhere along the way. She came to Westeros to take the Iron Throne. To defeat Cersei. And then I come along and all but force her to abandon her cause for my own. She lost a dragon to save me. She lost Ser Jorah, she lost Missandei. She sacrificed thousands of her own men to keep the Seven Kingdoms safe,” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his heart breaking all over again for his wife. “All she asked for in return was support, I didn’t think it was too much to give, yet you and all the rest made it known to her that she would never be welcomed, or wanted,” Sansa opens her mouth to argue, but he holds up his hand, wanting to get it all out before she picks it apart. “And after…I didn’t comfort her like I should have. I didn’t talk to her like I should have. The secret…I was overwhelmed. She begged me not to tell you. _You_ , Sansa. Because she knew exactly what you would do. I defended you, ensured her that my family would never betray my trust, that we could all live together in peace. You proved me wrong, and it almost cost me everything.”

“I will not take the blame for—”

“I’m not blaming you,” he insists. “I’m the one who trusted you. I trusted you and she lost more because of it. I’m sure you know what it’s like to feel betrayed, to feel alone. That’s what we did to her, what _I_ did to her. I didn’t kill her because I couldn’t betray her that way. It would have been the most dishonorable thing I’ve ever done. Is that really such a terrible reason?”

“Not a single person would have seen it as dishonorable. Nobody would have blamed you for it.”

“ _I_ would have. Killing someone you love isn’t _easy_ , Sansa.”

She narrows her eyes, shaking her head at him. “So, you did do it for _love_? Love is foolish, Jon. And it doesn’t last.”

“If you believe that, I feel sorry for you,” He says softly. “Nothing you say will change my mind, Sansa. I’ve married her. We were both crowned before witnesses. It’s done.”

“Are you sure she loves you?”

“I am.”

“It’s rather convenient for her, wouldn’t you say? To ‘love’ the only person in the world who poses a threat to her claim? The only person who can get close enough to kill her?”

“It’s not a convenience, Sansa,” Bran says, breaking the back and forth between them again, his words conveying no interest in their conversation. “They were always fated to meet, to love.”

“And you said he was going to kill her. Her death must fated too, then.”

“I thought it was. Everything was happening as I expected it would, I ensured it, but Jon’s actions were unexpected. I don’t know what will happen now.”

His words make even Jon more uncomfortable. _Everything was happening as I expected it would._ Did his brother know what she was going to do?

“But you knew what was going to happen. How? Why can’t you see it now?” He asks, desperate to know if she’ll be safe, if she’ll live and be happy.

“There are moments that are fixed, moments that are shaped from history, that shape history. Moments that must happen in order to keep the world alive and progressing. I believed her death was one of those moments.”

“But you’re not sure now?” Jon asks with a bit of aggression, leaning towards Bran.

“I can’t be certain, Jon.” he replies, unaffected by his desperation.

Jon shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says firmly. “She isn’t going to die. I won’t allow it.”

“If it’s fated, I’m afraid you can’t do anything to prevent it.”

“I have before.”

“You may have just prolonged the inevitable. Her death can come from anything, not just you. Illness, poison, a knife-wielding assassin, childbirth. Fate will find a way.”

He can’t control the way his body freezes, the way his throat constricts, or the way his eyes begin to sting with tears of agony. _Childbirth._ He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t care if they see how Bran’s blunt words have affected him. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself. _She won’t die._

Bran continues as if he hadn’t just further fed Jon’s greatest fear. “But as I said, I’m not certain anymore. You may have no reason to worry at all.”

“We have every reason to worry!” Sansa exclaims. “If you can’t see what will happen, then you can’t guarantee anyone else’s safety. Her life isn’t more important than anyone else’s. She could do it again. We can’t allow that risk.”

“She isn’t going to do it again, Sansa,” he says, looking up at his sisters. Sansa’s irritation doesn’t bother him, but Arya’s look of pity and understanding makes him feel less alone. “I don’t need fate to tell me that.”

Sansa doesn’t offer a retort, an unreadable mask falling over her face. She stands slowly, intent on making a show of her exit.

“The North will not submit to a Southern ruler, Jon. Not even you. And especially not her. We will fight for our independence if it comes to that.”

 _You don’t have the men, you don’t have the resources, you don’t have the support,_ he wants to scream at her, but he stays quiet. She won’t see reason, not tonight.

With that, she moves to leave, grabbing the back of Bran’s chair to wheel him away.

“Stop,” Jon says, “I’ll take him back to his rooms. I’d like to speak with him a little longer.”

She looks at Bran, and all he does is nod, his eyes never leaving Jon’s, his face as blank as ever. “Alright.”

Sansa lets out a huff, clearly unhappy with Bran’s decisions, but she doesn’t argue, and briskly walks away from the table.

Arya rises to leave as well, though her movements are not as sharp as Sansa’s. Not as angry. “I…I’ll speak to her, Jon.” Her voice is soft and sad. “I don’t know what I’ll say…but you’re my brother. You’re hers too, she needs to realize how important that is.”

He gives her a weak smile, “Thank you, Arya.”

He doesn’t have much hope in her success, but he can’t deny that he feels relieved as she goes after Sansa, happy that he has once less voice of opposition against him.

It’s just him and Bran, now, and he as little as he understands the thing that he’s become, he won’t fear it, and he won’t let it control their conversation.

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know that I was about to kill the mother of my own child?”

“No. She didn’t know, she didn’t suspect. No one did. It didn’t matter, really, that life would have been gone with hers, the knowledge undiscovered.”

His hands ball up onto fists, anger and hurt and confusion coursing through him. _Bran would never be so callous, so cruel. But this isn’t Bran._ He isn’t sure if the Three-Eyed Raven feels anything. He doesn’t know if he was just regurgitating what he’s seen or if he was telling Jon these things with ill intent.  

“When did you find out?”

“On the way here. Sansa asked me to look, to see what you were doing.”

“But you didn’t tell her about the babe?”

“She never asked about a babe. All she asked about was your movements, your actions. I told her exactly that, no more, no less.”

“Is this a _game_ to you, Bran? Toying with people’s lives and call it fate?”

“No, it isn’t a game. I’m the Three-Eyed Raven, I have no stake in anything.”

“But you _said_ , you said you knew what was going to happen, that you _ensured_ it.”

“I did.”

“So, you knew what Daenerys was going to do and you said nothing?”

“It’s not in my power to change the future.”

“But it’s in your power to make sure it happens?”

“Yes.”

He knows he won’t get a better explanation. “When did it start?” He asks instead.

“When did what start?”

“Daenerys. When did you start to hurt her?”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her, I—”

“Yes, you were. If you knew what she was going to do, you knew what she had to lose to make it happen. So, _when_?”

“It started with Sam. She had just told him that she’d executed his father and his brother. He was angry and hurt. He needed to tell you in the manner that he did to plant doubt in your head.”

“I never doubted her.”

“You did. After he told you, you never defended her as strongly as you could have because she caused pain to someone you care about. Your love was new, weak.”

“But I still loved her.” He said, shame heavy in his voice.

“You did, but you weren’t embracing it as you are now. You were afraid of it and she wasn’t.”

His breathing is heavy, shaking with every exhale. He feels overwhelmed, used, bitterly angry. All he wants to do is run to his wife and beg her to forgive him.

“I’m right, then, aren’t I? She didn’t do it because she’s mad, because she’s a tyrant. She did it because we took everything from her. We left her battered and broken.”

“She isn’t mad. She doesn’t take pride in what she’s done.”

“So, she won’t do it again? Can you tell that to Sansa?”

“As I said, I can’t be sure of anything right now. There are too many pieces at play. Whatever anyone else is planning, you’re blocking it. Your resolution is strong enough to keep me blind from certainty.”

It’s the only answer he gets that doesn’t make him feel like a failure. It makes him sit up straighter, feeling proud and encouraged that his efforts aren’t going unnoticed, even if it’s only by his seemingly omnipotent, strange brother.

“What was supposed to happen? After I killed her, what would have happened?” Part of him hates to ask, especially when it doesn’t matter at all, but curiosity gets the best of him. He wants to know how he would have continued to live without reason, how he would have coped with the guilt and the agony, if he would have at all.

“You would have been imprisoned for her death. A trial would be held in the Dragonpit, Tyrion’s. Lords from every kingdom would be present, and we would name a new King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Who? I wouldn’t have taken it. Even now, I know I wouldn’t have.”

“No, not you. Me.”

Jon narrows his eyes at Bran in confusion, in suspicion. “Why you? You said you couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell, but you can be King?”

“If the fates willed it, yes.”

“But _why_? What are you playing at Bran?” He asks again.

“I’m not playing at anything, Jon. All I can do is see what must happen and ensure that it can without obstacles.”

“So, you must become King?”

“If that’s what must happen for the world to be better, then yes.”

Jon shakes his head again. Bran’s words mean nothing to him. “That won’t happen. I am the King and she is my Queen.”

Bran’s lips twitch up, his eyes flashing with warmth. In that brief moment Jon only sees _Bran._ “Perhaps that’s meant to happen instead.”

“Then why didn’t you see it?”

“You, I think. You were weak, Jon. You were meant to fall into step as everyone else had, be easily influenced as they had been, and you were, but you pushed back against your own fate when you let yourself love her as she loved you.”

 _It’s why she lost Jorah and Missandei._ They weren’t easily influenced, their loyalty to Daenerys put him to shame. Had they lived, she would have never been betrayed, or alone, or felt unloved.

“What about Grey Worm? If I killed Dany, why didn’t he kill me?” He doesn’t know why he continues to ask when that future would never come to pass.

“I can see what people do but I can’t always understand why they do them.”

He sighs, loudly, irritated at Bran’s unhelpful words.  “And me? What happened to me?” _Please say I was executed anyway, please say I paid for my crime._

“You join the Night’s Watch. Stripped of all titles and claims. You will have found peace in it.”

The cracks in his heart deepen, knowing there’s truth in Bran’s words. If he killed her, it would have meant he never embraced what they were to each other. He wouldn’t have known what he’d lost.

“I’m not the same person.”

“You’re not.” Bran agrees.

He taps his fingers on the table, focused on the splintered wood. “And Sansa?” He knows the answer.

“She declares the North independent, and rules as their Queen.”

Even in the lost future, he resents her for getting what she wants. It only proves him right, though. Where he ended up didn’t matter to her so long as she got what she wanted.

“And she needs the South, doesn’t she? To feed her people.”

“For a while, yes. The South aids the North as a gesture of goodwill, as an apology for all they’ve suffered.”

“That’s your decision?”

“It is.”

He grabs his horn of ale, gulping it down in one swig. “Thank you for telling me, Bran, but won’t allow you, or fate, or whatever gods take pleasure in it to toy with me any longer. Whatever happens now, it _cannot_ be influenced by actions you choose to take and not take.” He hears the plea in his own words.

“I’m the Three-Eyed Ra—”

“I’m not asking him, I’m asking my brother, Bran. Whatever faults any of us have, we deserve the right to our own free will. Bran would understand that.”

His words touch something in him, they reach his brother buried deep under the influence of the powerful, all-seeing presence, because his eyes flash with understanding, acceptance.

“It seems that will be the case anyway. I can’t do anything about things I cannot see.” _Bran_ smiles again, and Jon can see that he isn’t put out by losing the advantage he had over all the rest.  The Three-Eyed Raven, though, Jon isn’t sure how he feels.

As he walks Bran back to his rooms, he feels refreshingly calm. Sansa wasn’t going to be easy, but he knows she will be forced to bend from her rigid stance in time. They would have to talk more, hours more, to understand each other. Perhaps if she knew about the babe, she would falter in her quest for conflict. He would ask Dany, and Arya. It might not matter, their precious secret had only a weeks before it would be known to anyone with a set of eyes and common sense.

Bran asks to be sat in front if the hearth, and the guard assigned to tend to his brother gets the fire going while he ensures Bran is as comfortable as he can be.

He sets a fur blanket on his lap, feeling slightly awkward in their dynamic. He’s his younger brother, someone he should be able to tease and quip with, but he was also someone who held a power Jon could only see as a curse, someone who lacked the ability to feel anything and held the ability to see all. He was strange, but he was crippled in his abilities, because of Jon. Perhaps that’s why Jon’s fear had depleted in the duration of their talk, because while they differed in skill, they were equals at the moment, and Jon intends to keep it that way, to win and defeat everyone else and their plans. He intends to clear whatever obstacles were in Bran’s way until all he saw in their future was happiness and peace.

When his brother is settled, he leaves, walking to his own rooms, hoping Daenerys didn’t fall asleep while waiting for him so he can apologize again and soak up the feelings of hurt and anger that he knows she feels.

She is up, and then sight of her melts his heart all over again. Her gentle smile to him mends the cracks and smooths them over like they never existed, but he knows she feels more than love at the moment.

“Dany…” he sighs, walking towards their bed, removing his cloak.

“You’re sorry,” she says, losing her smile after being reminded of what was said. “I know, Jon. You’ve already apologized, and I’ve already forgiven you. There’s no reason to revisit it.”

There’s no invitation for argument in her words, but he does anyway. “There is. I failed you, _so much_ , I—”

“And we’ve already talked about it.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his, hating how she’s trying to dismiss what she feels. He’d rather her yell at him, make her frustration know. “You’re upset.”

She cracks, only a little, her shoulders slumping forward. “Of course, I am. You made it easy for her to hate me. What she said hurt, Jon. You let her believe the worst of me when you knew it wasn’t true.”

“I know, and I’m—”

“Stop apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you, but that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt me anymore.”

He nods in defeat, accepting her disappointment in him.

“Today went well, for the most part,” he starts, changing the subject. “Even Tyrion behaved himself.”

 “It did.” She rewards his attempt at humor with a smile, before a yawn escaped hers.

He leans forward, giving her a small peck that she returns, much to his relief. “I’m going to get changed. Thank you for waiting up.”

She cups his cheek, her thumb caressing his skin softly. “Thank you for coming back.”

When they curl up together a few minutes later, they’re both quiet, ready to let sleep take them. He knows she’s still angry, hurt by how he handled things, but he can’t kiss her hurt away like he wants to.

Tomorrow they would discuss Sansa, tomorrow they would plan their next steps, but for now he’s content to just hold her instead, and she’s willing to let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? What do you think? Good or bad or in between? Please be kind but also don't lie to me :)
> 
> Anyway, I want it to be clear that I don't hate Sansa, and I'm not out to make her seem like a villain. Everything I wrote, I 100% believe she would say or do, especially s8 Sansa. IDK what Sansa stans have made it this far into this fic, but let me know if I should just go ahead and tag this as anti-Sansa. Bran, for a second I thought about making him a tad bit villainous, but decided against it. He's literally just the Three-Eyed Raven and I'm not exactly sure what that means so I just did what I could. He actually might be villainous, actually, depending on how you view his actions. Arya's also being a little less of an a-hole, but I'm trying to make it happen at a realistic pace. Be patient with her. 
> 
> Tyrion and Dany need to talk. And Sam and Dany, and Jon and Sam. You know, people just need to say words, something the last season lacked. That'll all be coming soon. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry I disappeared for nearly 2 months, just been busy with life. And thank you all for not bugging me about it, it's much appreciated :)
> 
> So, as it turns out, I was not mean enough to Sansa last chapter lol. Some people were very annoyed with me (which I completely understand, s8 Sansa is horrible) but I think people need to remember that, and the end of the day, Daenerys did it. That's the starting point I chose to work with. (Not my best decision, I know, lets not talk about it). She's not a flawless hero in this fic, and it wouldn't make sense for other characters not to acknowledge that, or point it out whenever they can. I'm not saying no one else did anything wrong, and I'm trying my best to point out all of their mistakes as well, but this fic is about HER redemption and killing Sansa on the spot just be a detour that wouldn't make sense. That being said, anyone who absolutely cannot stand Sansa will probably be annoyed with me for a while, I don't have plans on killing her off for the hell of it. Just a warning. If it helps, she's only in this chapter for like...two pages.
> 
> And, if it wasn't super clear last time, I had no clue what to do with Bran. I didn't want him to cause anymore conflict, so last chapter was sort of my way of writing him out. He'll be just as useless as he was in the show. Just the weird brother who occasionally says creepy and/or insightful things. 
> 
> This one is full of one-on-one conversations, but I try to give light jonerys fluff cause I love them so much. Hope you guys enjoy :)

“You don’t think that looks a bit conspicuous?” Jon asks in amusement, strapping on his sword belt.

She furrows her brows, turning her body as she looks in the mirror, the heavy cloak twisting slightly with her movements. “No, I don’t think so. It’s getting colder, Jon. No one will think it’s odd.”

She catches his smile in the mirror, his eyes bright and brimming with happiness even in his reflection. Their child never fails to make them happy, to forget all the rest weighing on them for a brief amount of time.

“Come and eat, love, before the food gets cold.”

She nods, going to undo the cloak. “Thank you, Merri, it’s perfect.” She says, handing it off to her handmaid. It really was perfect, a dark grey wool cloak with red stitching, the inside lined with fur to keep her warm. It wasn’t particularly ostentatious or befitting of a Queen, but it kept her warm and her secret safe for the time being.

“Of course, Khaleesi. I am happy you like it.”

She pushes it from her shoulders and drapes it over a chair. “Have any of the other women figured it out?” She knows it would be too much to ask Merri to tend her wardrobe on her own, she told her to gather people she trusted to help along.

“No one is bold enough to ask, I just say Khaleesi has put on weight after winning her battles and they accept that.”

Her mood is slightly dampened by her phrasing, she didn’t feel like she won anything, but she still gives her handmaid a grateful smile before dismissing her.

“So how do you plan on moving your arms if you’re trapped under a cloak.” Jon asks when the door closes behind Merri.

She shakes her head at him, matching his light tone to keep the mood from souring. “I can still use my arms, Jon, it doesn’t have to stay closed,” she turns back to the mirror, examining her middle. “Besides, I don’t think it’s quite noticeable from the front, is it?” She moves her hands down, caressing the small swell. She can see it quite clearly now when she looks down, her hand visibly cupped to accommodate the curve of her belly. With her loosened coats, she feels like it’s too pronounced to continue to go unnoticed.

He walks up behind her, placing his hand over hers. “I’m not the right person to ask, Dany. I’m too…enamored not to notice right away.”

Her cheeks warm at his sweet words. “Well, without it, people could speculate. I’ll either be pregnant or a Queen who’s indulging while the people are lining up for scraps. I’m not keen for either to be the case just yet.”

“You’re scared.”

She turns to face him, bringing up her arms to clasp her hands behind his neck. “I am.” she answers honestly.

“Me too,” he says quietly, pulling her closer, her ever-growing belly pressing against him. “Would you be open to the possibility of staying inside the keep for the remaining…four and half moons?” He asks with an amused smile.

“Not a chance, Jon Snow.” She answers, though the idea appeals to her more than she’d like. The idea promised rest and a quiet mind. She couldn’t do it, though; the guilt would overwhelm her, and she didn’t deserve the peace that would come with it.

“Do you know what you want to say to him?” Jon asks, changing the subject.

“Not really, I just want to hear what he has to say to me. He obviously has strong feelings considering he has yet to accept your more than generous offer.”

He hums in response, staring down at her. “If you think he’s deserving of the position, ask him a final time. I’ve given him more than enough time to consider and I want an answer today.”

“And if I don’t think he’s deserving?”

“Then revoke it,” he shrugs. “Truth be told, I had hoped our friendship would play in my favor, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

She feels a twinge of guilt at his words, but she shoves it from her mind before it can burrow too deep. _There is guilt that I have no choice but to carry, and there is guilt that is not mine to bear._ She didn’t have room to shoulder the strain of Jon and Sam’s friendship because she was not the person would could fix it. Only words spoken between her husband and his friend could mend what was between them, all she should do was speak her piece and hope Sam would hear it with open ears.

 _Hope_. It’s exhausting to hope, and she tries her best to save it for the sweetest possibilities. This didn’t seem like such a sweet one, but she wants so badly for Jon to have the people who care about him in his life. She knows all too well what it feels like to lose her closest companions, but she couldn’t imagine the pain and resentment that would fester when those people were still alive and well and choosing to abandon someone they loved. No, she wouldn’t waste her time with the guilt, but she would spare some of her dwindling hope to do what she believed was right.

“Any word from you sister?” She asks, moving their conversation forward, wading their way through pressing matters.

“Not since our supper,” he answers in annoyance. The day before, Sansa had not emerged from her chambers, instead choosing to spend her day behind closed doors with Bran and Arya. The guards assigned to her by Grey Worm reported that they had not exited the room at all during the day, and that their voices never rose above a whisper, as the hallway was never disturbed by the hum of voices in the room. She had tried her best not to worry, and she seemed to have an abundance of it, but she couldn’t help but feel helpless when it came handling Sansa.

If she wasn’t Jon’s sister, if she didn’t have great influence over the North, it would be quite easy to throw her in a cell or have her executed for treason. But Daenerys couldn’t swallow the unease that those options brought about. She doesn’t want any more violence. She doesn’t want any more fighting. _I can’t be responsible for anymore death._ It’s that particular thought that drifts into her mind whenever her annoyance at Sansa Stark peaks into anger. She couldn’t let that happen again, those emotions couldn’t be allowed to mix and culminate the way they did before. She knows acting on her anger towards Sansa would shatter some delicate barrier she built between herself and that woman she saw in the mirror all those weeks ago, and make it easier to face the next one with frightening indifference until she was once again a version of herself that disgusted her. That _still_ disgusts her and ridicules her whenever she steps out of their peaceful haven.

“I want a word with her as well. Alone,” she says, giving him a pointed look when doubt shifts across his face. “She’s waiting for you to see her way of things, that’s why she doesn’t take any of your threats or commands seriously. But she thinks me a tyrant. When she hears them from me, she’ll know that they aren’t suggestions or open for discussion.”

“That doesn’t mean she won’t continue to be difficult.”

“I’ll make it _very_ clear, then. If she’s smart, she’ll accept what we’ve offered her and be happy with it.”

“You want her to think you’re a tyrant?”

“Nothing I do will make her think otherwise. I might as well use her stubborn mind to my advantage,” He nods in acceptance, a prideful smile pulling at his lips at her sharp tone. “I might tell her about the baby,” she adds, a little quieter. “If Arya hasn’t already.”

“She hasn’t,” he replies. “Do you think that’s wise? It could work to our advantage, but it could also ruin any negotiations.”

“We aren’t _negotiating_ , Jon,” She says sharply. “But I don’t know how she’ll react.”

“Perhaps we should get another opinion?”

“You sound like you have someone in mind.” She says cautiously. There are only a few people left who could advise them.

He sighs. “He knows her, better than I do anyway.”

“Just because he knows someone doesn’t mean he knows how they think.” She says bitterly, thinking back to all the times he failed her because he _knew_ Cersei.

“Still, I don’t think it would hurt to hear what he has to say.” he argues lightly.

She narrows her eyes at him. “What do you think is going to happen, Jon? I won’t forgive him.”

“You don’t have to, but he’s…valuable. And I can’t talk to him.”

“What?” She asks in confusion.

“I can’t talk to him without feeling angry, Dany. As soon as he starts talking, I want him to stop. I want his tongue ripped out.” He finishes off quietly, frustrated with his own fear.

She gives him a small smile, stepping closer to him. “Alright. Perhaps I can tolerate him long enough to get some semblance of helpful insight.”

He lets out a weak laugh at her confident tone. “I can have him escorted back to his room so you can speak to him in private.”

“No need, I’ll speak to him when they day is done. The sewers are too important to delay.”

“After Sam, then?”

“After Sam,” she nods. “Is there anything I should know about? I don’t want any more surprises sprung on me. Who knows if he’s uncovered some other deep secrets at the Citadel.”

He thinks for a quick moment before nodding. “He has a child on the way.”

“A child?”

“Yes, with Gilly, she’s one of the Free Folk.”

“I take it she isn’t here?”

“No. Just…keep that in mind, I suppose. Whatever you choose to do.”

She nods firmly, thankful for the information. Sam would probably be too much of a coward to mention it to her and run to Jon in tears if she decided to have him go back to the Wall, not knowing about his broke vows and waiting family.

“After I decide, would you like me to tell you before I tell him? I could wait another day…”

“No, let’s be done with it. He’ll either be our Warden or he won’t be. I expect he’ll have words for me after, anyway.”

\---------------

She feels useless and lazy, returning to the Keep after only a few hours. Walking up the steps, she already feels like she’s ignoring her people, all of whom haven’t paused in their bustling about, tending to matters that are far from being completed. She feels that tiring guilty and it’s ever-present echoing anger for having to leave them to do what she should be doing herself, all to sit down and try to appease someone who insists on being a thorn in the side of her and Jon’s intended peace.  

She walks back to their chambers quickly, needing to wash the smudges of dirt from her face and smooth out her windblown braid. She needs to be a Queen now, one that commands instead of holds hands and stands equal to her people.

But, standing in front of the mirror, cheeks pink from the cold and being recently scrubbed, she begins to brush out her hair, staring directly at her reflection, unsure if she _should_ sharpen her edges and steel her gaze. The woman across from her doesn’t want to, she looks hesitant, as is a hint of ruthlessness will make her recoil. She takes a deep breath, ignoring her frightened thoughts. _I don’t need to be his friend; I need to be his Queen. I can’t appease everyone._

She finishes her braid, satisfied that she looks more put together, approachable in her unremarkable cloak, authoritative in her sure stance. The piercing eyes staring back aren’t quiet as sharp as she knows they could be, but she’s satisfied. It didn’t take her much to unsettle Samwell Tarly.

She walks to his room, deciding that he would be more willing to speak in a familiar place. Merri trails behind her with a tray of tea and two small cups. The tea is more of a formality than anything else, a way to fill the silent tension that was sure to come. She knows he’s waiting for her to summon him; she had seen him return to the keep not twenty minutes before her, taking each step with lead in his feet. She nearly rolled her eyes at the sight. She knows going to him would leave him flustered, but she wouldn’t play into his view of her, she would counter everything he thinks he knows as best she could.

As she approaches his door, her guards station themselves in the narrow hallway.

Raising her hand to knock, she suddenly feels a flurry of nerves in her belly. Even telling herself that what Sam thinks about her shouldn’t matter, a small part of her feels jilted by his quick judgement of her. Not after the city, no, _I couldn’t fault him for that,_ she reminds herself, but after she told him what she did. He never gave her a chance to explain her actions before he decided that she didn’t deserve the throne or Jon.

_I’ll explain now, and he’ll have to listen._

She knocks quickly, the small affirmation giving her enough courage to get on with it.

When he opens the door, his eyes are down, clearly expecting an escort.

His head shoots up as soon as he sees her small feet peeking out of the cloak, surprise on his face before the color drains from it.

“Y-your Grace,” he stutters out. “I wasn’t expecting you to come here.”

“I know. May I come in?” She says, keeping her tone light.

“I—I suppose.” He says hesitantly, widening the door and stepping to the side.

She walks straight in, ignoring his obvious discomfort. Merri shuffles in behind her, more at ease in the tiny room than its own occupant.

As Merri sets the small tray on a table and quietly leaves, she takes in the small room with unimpressed eyes. The bed is unmade, the writing desk covered in, half-burnt candles, scattered papers, and thick books.

She nods to them. “Are those the books you stole from the Citadel?” She keeps her tone light, almost teasing, remembering the one time she found his flustered nature endearing. It doesn’t anymore, and when he becomes flustered now, it only irks her. “Be calm, Sam. I’m not here about some old books.”

“Why are you here?” He asks, finding his voice.

She ignores him, walking over to the fireplace, thankful for the small fire that’s already burning, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “Have a seat. You and I need to talk.” Her tone is still light, firming just a little to make her words a command.

He takes a slow step forward, afraid to approach her.

She sighs in frustration. “Sam, if I wanted to harm you, I would. I only wish to talk to you, for Jon’s sake.”

At the mention of her husband, his shoulders slump in defeat and he makes the short walk over to the other chair.

For a few moments, the crackling of the fire is the only sound in the room. She feels calmer now, her nerves settled. She lets him gather his bearings, intent on coming out of this room on a settled decision, and hopefully without adding to whatever conflict Sam had with Jon.

“I trust you know what we need to talk about?” she says, looking at him with a soft, questioning gaze. “Whatever you say won’t be held over your head, I promise you that. This is a conversation, nothing more.”

He swallows, contempt and fear fighting for dominance on his rounded features. “I’m afraid your promises don’t hold much weight with me. I’m sure you understand why.”

She smirks, raising an eyebrow at his bold statement and frightened eyes. “I’m not sure I do, Sam. I’ve never broken any promises I’ve made before. It’s not important in any case, I won’t be asking you to share any deep, dark secrets.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he acknowledges her words with a meek nod.

She takes a breath, deciding it would be best to start from the beginning, from what was truly bothering her more than anything else. “Why did you decide to hate me so quickly? In Winterfell?” she asks, keeping her voice curious and soft.

He blinks, clearly not expecting such a vulnerable question. “You killed my father and my brother because they didn’t kneel to you, a good leader doesn’t do that.”

“They weren’t innocent men, Sam. I didn’t storm your home and pull them out of hiding, we met on an open field.”

“They surrendered, though, didn’t they?” he presses, more strength in his voice. “And you killed them anyway.”

“Do you know what your father said before he died, Sam? I expect not, you never asked. He said I would never be his Queen, that me and my army were foreign and unwelcome. You knew more about him than I did, was he the type of man to be flexible in his beliefs? To change them when someone commanded it?”

He narrows his eyes. “He wasn’t, but it isn’t right to kill anyone who doesn’t listen to you.”

She reminds herself to be patient. “What about someone who took up arms against you? He betrayed Lady Olenna, my ally, for Cersei Lannister. He took his armies and sacked Highgarden. Those are crimes, Sam. Punishable by death. He wasn’t some innocent Lord who decided I wasn’t worth swearing fealty to, he was a hostile enemy who actively took up arms against me, who lost and stood his ground _as_ my enemy. His prejudices wouldn’t allow him to see reason. Don’t forget that.”

“Jon would never kill someone who surrendered and held on to their beliefs. He would imprison them, yes, but he wouldn’t kill them without a second thought.”

“Jon and I are not comparable. He was never trying to win the Iron Throne, stakes were never so high for him.”

“Stakes were _higher_ for him,” he counters. “The Army of the Dead was marching towards the wall and he kept people alive because he knew that keeping them alive was more important, even if they hated him.”

“Fine,” she concedes. “The stakes were different. The Army of the Dead wasn’t like an army of men. Men can think for themselves, they can hold secrets and plan betrayals, and men who hold any sort of power can think for others as well. Your father was man who held power, who showed no signs of willingness to fight alongside me. Keeping him alive would have been pointless, a strain on our limited resources, and a constant threat to my life.”

She didn’t feel a shred of guilt over Randyll Tarly’s death and she doesn’t now. She would make the same choice again if given the chance.

“And my brother?” he asks, unable or unwilling to argue further against his father’s death. She did feel a small twinge of guilt over Dickon Tarly’s death. The man was foolish and brave, and determined to stay unblemished in his father’s eyes.

“Your brother was one of the many men your father thought for. It is unfortunate, but he stood by your father.”

“You could have imprisoned him. Dickon was nothing like my father.”

“He made his choice, Sam,” she sighs. “Look, I _am_ sorry that you lost your father and your brother. I know all too well what it’s like to lose family, but you have more. Your mother and your sister are safe and unharmed at Horn Hill. I won’t punish them for the sins of your father.”

“Good, they shouldn’t be punished.” He snaps, before he looks away, all the confidence leaving his face as he realizes his biting tone.

She ignores it. “What did you say to Jon?” she asks instead, wanting to know the words that were strong enough to rip her love from her. “How did you tell him?”

At this, he looks a little more sheepish. “I—I sort of just sprung it on him.”

“ _How?_ Because afterwards he could hardly look at me, he—” she stops, unwilling to be that vulnerable in front of him. “You didn’t just say that. You can’t have.”

“I didn’t,” he affirms. “I was angry, I had just left the library and Bran told me that I needed to tell him then, I don’t know why it had to be then, but he insisted that Jon needed to know. So, I went down to the crypts, where he was--” he stops, looking nervous.

“Go on.” She says, trying not to let her impatience turn to annoyance.

“I told him what you did, I wanted him to be as angry as I was.”

“Did you know? About us?”

“I didn’t, all I knew was that he shouldn’t have bent the knee to you, and it was much easier to tell him that when I knew that there was someone better.”

She’s surprised at his boldness, but she still doesn’t understand why he believed her to be so underserving of the throne after one conversation.

“And what did Jon say?” Did he lose faith in her in that moment? Did question why he loved her because of the hurt words of his friend?

“He…he was confused, I think he felt trapped because you were our only hope at defeating the Army of the Dead. He tried to justify your actions and I got frustrated that he couldn’t _see_ , so I just told him. I told him that the throne was his, I told him about Rhaegar and Lyanna.”

“Why did you believe he was so much better than me? I did not torture your family; I did not chain them and starve them just to see them suffer. I gave them a choice and I told them the consequences of their choices. Your father made it very clear where he stood.”

“You burned them alive.”

She shakes her head, giving him a dark smile. “Tell me, Sam, if I had them kneel before me and placed a sword at their necks, would you like me any better? I passed the sentence, and I gave Drogon the command. Drogon is my sword as much as he is my son, I executed them same as every man who called himself King. You decided I was a terrible ruler because I killed your father and your brother, not because of how I killed them.”

“Was I wrong?”

She stiffens at his words. It always comes back to that, something she can’t argue against or defend. She doesn’t try to, and she moves the conversation away from it. “You know Jon as well as I do, probably better in some respects, you must know how he feels about his titles.”

“He didn’t revel in the power he was given, he hated it actually, but he never neglected the duties that came along with the titles. And he never took advantage of the privileges they offered him.”

“So, when you told him that his entire life was a lie, you did it only to burden him with another title he didn’t ask for.” She says plainly, not giving him leave to protest her observation. “You told him what I did to the men who betrayed my allies because you wanted him to feel as if he had no choice but to act on his claim. You didn’t care what it meant to him, only what it meant to the world.” As she speaks, she feels herself shamed by her own words. She’d done the same. He told her and the first thing she thought of was his threat to her claim. _I helped him walk away from us. I practically pushed him away._

Thankfully, Sam seems to feel just as affected. He flushes in embarrassment, her own shame reflecting in his eyes. She hopes he’s not observant enough to see it in hers. “No…I suppose I didn’t think about what it would mean to him. He didn’t take it well, did he?”

She gives him a sad smile. “I don’t think so, he didn’t let me close enough to know. Though…I never asked. Because your plan worked. It tore us apart and neither of us knew how to handle it. I was afraid of his claim and what it meant. I asked him to keep it a secret for my sake, not thinking about how he must have been feeling knowing that Ned Stark wasn’t his father. That his brother and sisters were actually his cousins. I wish I would have asked him.” _I could have helped him; I could have held him if he let me close enough. If I didn’t push for more when he wasn’t ready._

“I only did it then because Bran told me I had to and I—I…” he sighs. “I guess you’re right. He needed a friend to tell him…and I wasn’t thinking about my friend Jon when I told him that, only the King.”

“We both failed him,” she admits, meeting him on the common ground of their shared mistake. “I had done almost everything right. I suffered for years, lost people and friendships, gained believers and armies and love, and in one breathe he took it all away. It was all I could think about. The people will always favor a male heir over a woman. What I’ve done and what I’ve lived through pale in comparison to Jon’s own feats as soon as his royal blood is known.”

“I don’t think Jon would ever see it that way.”

“He doesn’t, but Jon isn’t like everyone else. He’s better than most of us.” She says softly, staring into the fire. “But he’s _too_ good. He didn’t see the bad in people like I did. You can call it paranoia, but I was right. He told his sister and the whispers of a secret heir reached the ears of my advisors before I could stop it. Lord Varys was quick to change his loyalties.”

He looks surprised at that, which surprises her. She would think he would be smug about her losses and betrayals as they only supported his belief that Jon was better than her. “Lord Varys was only one man; it doesn’t mean much.” He offers, and she’s thoroughly confused at the implied comfort of his words.

“It means quite a bit when your most trusted advisors are killed right in front of you and the only one you have left is weak in his loyalty at best. Who do you think told Varys?” His brows furrow, fighting between pity for her tragic descent and indifference at her pain. She hates both of them and continues on with her inquisition. “It’s no matter. What’s done is done. I don’t want to linger on the past, it’s the future we need to focus on now, and Jon’s wants you in that future.”

He sighs, shaking his head of whatever conflicting negative emotions he has for her. “I don’t know if I can be a Lord, let alone a Warden.”

“I agree, I don’t think you have what it takes,” she says honestly. “You’re too soft, perhaps even more so than Jon.”

“I don’t want to let him down.” He says.

“The only way you’ll let him down is if you make a decision that you know isn’t right.”

“Are you here to scare me from accepting the position?”

“No, I’m here to ask you if you’re capable of setting aside personal feelings for the position. Jon may be King, but I am the Queen,” she says, leaning forward. “I trust you know that nothing you say or do will change that?”

His dislike of her seems to be the only thing that lends to his bursts of boldness, as his lip twitches in annoyance and his eyes glaze over in stubborn defiance. “Jon won’t sit by and let injustice and tyranny happen.”

“He won’t,” she agrees, her voice cold and sure. She’d been vulnerable enough in front of him. “But that doesn’t answer my question. We’ve neglected the other Kingdoms long enough already; we need capable people that we can trust to oversee them and keep the peace. Can we trust you to do that?”

He gives her the courtesy of thinking on her question, his eyes darting to the fire to avoid her intimidating gaze. She allows him all the time he needs, sitting patiently, unsure if his loyalty to Jon or his hatred of her would win out. As he contemplates, she reaches for the forgotten tea, cooled now, but serving the purpose of filling the tense silence with mundane activity and providing her a distraction.

When she’s done, she settles back into her chair, leaning against the soft, plush velvet upholstery. She looks at Sam again, still staring at the fire, though he looks settled in whatever decision he’s made.

She breaks the silence first. “Tea?”

Her question snaps him out of his thoughts, and his confused eyes dart to her. She holds up her own cup, asking again. He shakes his head.

“We’ve given you a sufficient amount of time to think it over, Sam. I think you know what you want to do.”

He nods, almost regretfully. “I believe in Jon, and I know he’ll be a good King. But he wants my loyalty to extend to you, and I don’t think I can do that.”

“Very well,” she says. “If I’m being honest, I’m rather relieved. I almost want to admire your unwillingness to stray from your convictions but hurt feelings and personal vendettas don’t tends to lend themselves to successful political relationships. Still, you’ll be out in the world somewhere. We would like to know what you plan to do instead.”

He looks worried now. “I’ll need your approval of my plans, I take it.”

“There aren’t many options available to you, Sam. You’re a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, and unless you suffered the same fate as Jon, you are still beholden to your vows. Take no wife, father no children.” She wants to scare him with reality and surprise him kind authority. She had the power to free him of his vows and he knows it. “I’m afraid I’m not well-versed in the laws of the Night’s Watch, but was is the punishment for breaking your vows?” He looks sufficiently frightened, though there is a danger in his eyes that’s she’s pleased to see. She would think him even less of a man if he ignored the threat to his family.

“Jon won’t let you hurt them.” He replies, sitting a little taller.

“I have no plans on hurting them,” she says coolly, reminding herself that his assertion that she would isn’t unwarranted. “But Castle Black is no place for women and children, and I can’t say I would be too happy if you decided to keep them in the company of dangerous and unsavory men.”

“If you’re going to take my family away from me, just say it and be done with it,” he says bitterly. “You’ve done it before.”

She sighs in annoyance. She’s made no progress with him at all. “I wouldn’t feel terrible if I sent you back to the Wall, it would be the safest option for me, after all. But I won’t do that. If you wish, I’ll free you of your vows and allow you to properly care for your family.” His shoulders sag in relief, the breath he’d been holding leaving him in a rush. “Jon told me you were at the Citadel, training to become a maester. Unfortunately, I’m not able to bend the rules of the Citadel. If you choose your family, you won’t be able to continue with your studies. I know the rules are…lax, but I don’t think Jon would be too keen on allowing his friend to blatantly disrespect the traditions of the profession. The crown cannot invite conflict with the Citadel. I’m sure you understand.”

He quiet, still somewhat shocked at her quick shift. She takes a small sip of her tea, waiting for him to digest her response.

“I always wanted to be a maester,” he offers, sadness in his voice. “At Castle Black…I had a purpose, a reason for going to the Citadel. Wasn’t much help with the White Walkers, turns out…” he quiets again, clearly lost in his own thoughts. She stays silent, waiting for him to come to an answer on his own, so he can’t he was coerced by her, that she hadn’t demanded him to forego his happiness for her own pleasure. “Gilly needs me, and little Sam and the baby. Easy choice, really.”

She suspects it wasn’t so easy for him to give up a childhood dream, but she doesn’t say that. “Very well,” she says instead, with a firm nod. “We’ll draft something up, and have it delivered to whatever is left of the Night’s Watch, there’s no need for you to go all the way back North. I expect you’ll go back to Horn Hill? You’ll want your family to have all your able to offer them, and you’ll have more to offer as a Lord than as simple farmer.”

“I don’t know if I can be a Lord,” he repeats, though again it’s mostly to himself. “My father would hate it.”

“Does that really bother you?” she says, with a raised eyebrow. “You’ll learn how to be one, Sam. For your family.” She stands and sets the cup down softly on the tray. “If you find that you can’t live up to the duties as Lord of Horn Hill, tell Jon, we’ll see to it that your sister has the necessary help to keep affairs running smoothly, be it a husband or a steward.”

He nods swiftly, almost struggling to understand what she’s told him, what she’s offered.

As she makes her way to the door, she stops again, keen on reminding him that she holds just as much power as his friend, her husband. “As Lord of Horn Hill, I’ll expect you to form a successful relationship with your new liege Lord, whoever it is,” she hopes her warning is obvious. “I hope your prejudices don’t lead you to the same fate as your father.”

She turns then, knowing that threats won’t win her any friends, but she can’t find it in herself to care. She’s torn between accepting the hate and meeting it with uncaring coldness or subjecting herself to more rejection when they brush off or ignore her kindness. She feels her offer to Sam was in the middle, kind actions and cold words. It’s a balance that keeps her protected from hurt.

She doesn’t know if the same practice would work with Sansa, or even Tyrion. He’s a stranger to her now, a man who chose to betray her for his family. She hates him for it, and she doesn’t. He’s all alone now, the last, just as she was not too long ago. She understands the desperation he must have felt to save what little he had of his blood, but he’s also one of many who was lost to her, even if he is still alive. It still feels like a loss, almost as permanent as death. While he lost them, she lost him, and neither cared about what the other was feeling.

She still doesn’t care. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel any sort of guilt for Jaime and Cersei’s deaths. Tyrion knew death would be Cersei’s fate when he’d agreed to be her Hand, and Jaime had sealed his own when he chose to side with her. She doesn’t know why he was willing to show _them_ mercy despite their crimes and plotted to have her killed for hers.  However, she _can_ understand his pain, and she might have to lean on that understanding to be able to bring herself to speak to him again.

She finds herself meeting the chill of the air as soon as she exits the keep, eager to return to her duties, to lose herself in repentance until the darkness of the night made it impossible.

\---------------

She spots Brienne of Tarth immediately, her tall figure standing over the crowd, her face grim. She doesn’t remember seeing her when the Northern party had arrived, but she assumes the woman must have gone with Bran that first day, under Sansa’s orders no doubt.  Next to her is Lady Sansa, her striking red hair sticking out amongst the sea of grey stones and white snow. Even from this distance, she can see the disgust on the woman’s face. Not at her, she hasn’t spotted her yet, but at everything around her. Her look isn’t quite the same as everyone else’s. It isn’t disappointed like Tyrion’s or determine like Ser Davos’. It doesn’t have the same sadness as Jon’s or even the intense observation of Arya’s. Instead, there’s a smugness to it, her gaze filled with superiority as she takes in the devastation around her, though Dany knows she feels no joy in what she sees. Not even Sansa is that cruel. It not difficult to understand why the look of vindication fills her face. She thinks she was right. Sansa believed her to be evil, and how could she not when the devastation before her surpasses the acts of every monarch before her? She believed her to be dangerous, and not even Dany can argue otherwise. She believed her to be mad and now she has the proof.

Daenerys has little chance of removing that look from her face, and it tires her to know that anything she does for the rest of her life would never be enough to wash away what was done in a single afternoon. She could ensure that no one in her Kingdoms ever knows hunger or poverty again, she _would_ , and Sansa would point to this short period of destruction to invalidate her efforts. It doesn’t really bother her that Jon’s sister doesn’t like her, she’d accepted it long before they left Winterfell, though it stung a bit more then than it does now. Sansa’s hatred of her goes beyond personal feelings. She isn’t like Sam, someone they could move around and keep in check, she already has influence, and she’d spent several years in this very city learning how to use it. She has the power that comes with her name, that comes with being Ned Stark’s daughter. Sansa is like Randyll Tarly, cold and calculating and _able_ to cause trouble if she has the drive to do so. That’s where her hate affected Daenerys, it presented a threat that she would be foolish to ignore.

Part of her wants to provoke her, lead her to an act treasonous enough to condemn her to death, but just as she hates seeing that in Jon, she hates seeing it in herself. She doesn’t want to want it, but she sometimes thinks it would be easiest course to take, the easiest and the _safest_ for her child. The logical part of her knows there would be consequences, even if Sansa was guilty and granted a fair trial. The North wouldn’t think it a fair or just process, just another act of tyranny.

She doesn’t know what to do, and she wouldn’t know until she spoke to Sansa herself. She had held back her thoughts at supper, no doubt feeling unsupported as Bran said next to nothing and Arya chose to remain neutral. But if it was just the two of them…she didn’t expect it to be a cordial conversation, but she thinks it will be an honest one. Of course, like Randyll Tarly, Sansa could plot against her behind closed doors, speak to people like her cousin and her uncle and sway them towards defiance. Daenerys would need to build relationships with the two, make promises and win favor with them. She had more to offer, after all. All Sansa had to offer was the icy lands of the North, useless with its winter winds and ice-covered soil. Daenerys had Essos, potential for prosperous trade deals, the promise of food for the people, and a future of profits. Men who held power were more likely to align themselves with someone who could keep them in power over someone who could weaken it. The common folk in their regions wouldn’t react kindly to falling into harsher poverty for the sake of the familial bonds of their Lords.

She would remind Sansa of that, and she wouldn’t be kind about it.

Maybe she would take the same approach as she did with Sam, hoping that it wielded better results. She knows Sansa wouldn’t be too intimidated to speak her mind. Even if their talk was nothing but carefully calculated words and stiff tongues, at the very least she would exactly how much the she hated her, _that_ she wouldn’t make an effort to hide. It was bound to be interesting and infuriating, but she’s unsure if she should reveal their secret to her, or how she would play it if she did. It could be used a threat…a promise of fire and blood if she did anything to jeopardize it, or it could be used as a plea, a reason to strive for peace instead of conflict. It all really depends on what matters most to Sansa, her family or her power. If she could guilt her into caring for her family more than her title, she would. She would try, anyway.

Being lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when Sansa turned her icy stare to her, or how long she had been under her scrutinizing gaze. She offers her a smile, reminding herself to keep it neutral, and not let her own feelings turn it into grimace. Sansa only narrows her eyes before turning away.

Daenerys starts walking towards her, deciding that she would inform Sansa of their impending talk rather than having guards show up at her door as she’s readying for bed. She knows she’s being too nice, too considerate, but she wouldn’t be the first to make a hostile move. Nasty words were only words, and Daenerys wasn’t afraid to counter them with her own. It was her duty as Queen, after all, to keep her composure and dignity in the face of blatant disrespect.

 When Sansa notices her approaching, she looks for a moment like she’s going to start walking in the opposite direction, her eyes darting around to find the easiest exit. She wouldn’t chase after her if she did. Thankfully, Sansa isn’t as frightened of confrontation as Samwell Tarly, and instead takes a deep breath, carefully constructing her sharp features into a that smug, superior hatred she has for Daenerys.

She smiles at the Knight and the Northern guards accompanying her, careful to stay in front of them, knowing that if they so much as laid a hand of her for getting too close to Sansa, she wouldn’t be able to stop her own men from retaliating, or even stop her own husband from giving into his fiery temper.

She looks at Sansa expectantly, raising an eyebrow. Sansa looks around them, thankfully aware of the people around them, and hopefully having the sense not to cause a scene.

She catches the eye of one of her guards and nods. The man takes a small step to the side, as do the others, but Brienne hesitates, looking between the two of them before eventually stands down from her protective position. Daenerys only takes a few small steps forward, keeping enough safe distance between them.

Instead of wasting time with small talk, she leads right into her reason for approaching her. “My Lady, I would like you to join me tomorrow night after supper for a talk, just the two of us.”

“Why would I do that? You’ve made your intentions very clear. Tyrants aren’t known for their willingness to compromise.”

“And here _you_ are, unwilling to compromise.” She sighs, more than ready to lay out how the circumstances will never play in her favor, but she holds back. “You’ll do it because it gives both of us a chance to say what we want to say without mediation. Jon won’t be there to watch your words, and I’d like to think you aren’t too afraid to face me alone.”

“I’m not.” She says defensively. “But out of the pair of you, Jon is—”

“Easier to influence?” she finishes. “We won’t discuss this now, I have far too much to do. I’ll see you tomorrow. After supper. And then you can tell how weak you think your brother is.”

She’s barely able to hold her tongue, but she does, and gives strained nod, her jaw clenched tight and her eyes full of that piercing coldness.

“Stay safe, my Lady.”

\---------------

“When will the markets open?”

“Soon as all the building is done, I suppose,” he says, walking down the empty street, Arya by his side. “We have most of the spaces filled, people willing and able to begin their craft again.”

“How will it be successful when everyone’s lost everything they have? Supplies? Tools? Coin?” There’s more curiosity in her voice than malice.

“We’re compensating folks for their aid in rebuilding, and everyone that opens a shop will receive a small stipend until they begin to turn a profit. It’ll be a slow process…months before they aren’t completely dependent on the crown, but it’s a start.”

“How do you know it’ll work?”

“We don’t,” he admits. “The easiest thing to do would be to abandon the city and ensure that the people find homes in the other Kingdoms, but I don’t want to do that. Neither does Dany.”

“ _Dany_?”

He looks at her, a tired sigh leaving him. “Please don’t start.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but she looks away, deciding that it wasn’t worth it. A tense silence falls around them as they continue down the empty street, the easy conversation between them disappearing as easily as it had come.

After a few terse moments, she’s the first to break the silence. “When do you plan to start on the keep?” She starts tentatively, almost nervously. “It’s all crumbling walls and empty rooms. That can’t be a safe place for a…child.” She has to force to word out, but it warms his heart to hear her ask. Even if she doesn’t truly care, she asked.

“It’s not important to us, really. She hasn’t even brought it up,” he replies quickly, careful to mask his appreciation from pouring into his every word. “And the keep is safe enough for now…we have guards and a warm place to sleep.”

“More than most.”

“Aye, more than most. It’s still not much at all…but we won’t want for more until the people have the same. Safety and a warm place to sleep.”

“Still no place for a prince or princess to grow up.”

“It won’t be forever,” he shrugs, saddened by her true words. His child should want for nothing and yet they’ll come into this world and be reminded to want very little. He already feels like he’s failed them. “But we can’t do anything about it now…not when there are more pressing matters to attend to.”

His dejection must be evident, as she suddenly steps closer, and touches his arm. “Jon?” she starts. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry. I just…I wanted you to know that I care, alright? You’ll be a good father, I know it.”

He looks at her, giving her a weak smile. “I’m not so worried about that, funnily enough. Even if they don’t have fancy clothes and hundreds of toys, they’ll know their loved. That’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

She smiles at him, just a little. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Both,” he says honestly. “I don’t care which comes first.”

That upsets her a little, knowing he plans on fathering more children with Daenerys, but she manages to keep it from spilling over completely. “It doesn’t feel right…keeping it from Sansa.”

“Has she asked?”

“No, I haven’t seen her much.”

“You weren’t with her yesterday? I didn’t see you at all and she didn’t leave the keep.”

“I was with her in the morning, listened to a very impassioned tirade about your wife, and then I came back down.”

“Did she say anything I need to know about?”

“Nothing she wouldn’t say to you. She probably will, eventually.”

“Arya?” He tries and fails to keep the worry from his voice. If his sisters were plotting against him…it would very nearly break his heart to punish them for it, but he knew he would have to.

“Your wife isn’t going to die anytime soon, if that’s what you’re asking. Not because of Sansa, anyway.” He shoots her a glare and she merely shrugs. “Sansa isn’t alone in her feelings, Jon you know that. She isn’t the only threat you have to worry about.”

“You’ll tell me if she says something, though?” He asks with a hard desperation.

“She’s our _sister_ , Jon. This isn’t easy for me, you know. To keep my mouth shut when all I want to do is agree with everything she’s saying. And you need to tell her soon, because I don’t need her getting angry with me. She just kept asking why I’m defending what you’ve done, why I don’t seem to care—”

“We’ll tell her soon, before anyone else takes notice. Do you think she’ll care at all?”

“It’s hard to say…she just wants what best for her family, that includes you.”

“I find that hard to believe, considering what she did.”

“Jon…”

“You won’t change my mind about it, whatever you say. You aren’t the one she betrayed.”

She sighs loudly. “I know…I don’t like what she did. She broke her promise. If she told me before…I would have tried to stop her.”

He doesn’t know if he believes it, but he appreciates the sentiment. “Dany is going to talk to her, just the two of them.”

“ _Why_?” She asks in disbelief.

“She wants to understand her more. I don’t think she knows what to think of her.”

“She hates her.”

“I don’t think she wants to…she doesn’t want to call her an enemy.”

She looks confused for a moment, shaking her head. She doesn’t want to say that their sister is her enemy, because that would make her Jon’s as well. “Maybe the babe will…placate her.”

She’s done speaking about Sansa, both of them stubbornly fixed on their opposite of the argument. He wouldn’t mind being wrong, though. He hopes Sansa cares enough about him to care about his child.

“Where were you, then? After you left keep?” He says, clearing his throat.

“You don’t usually care where I’m at, why do you care now?”

“Just curious.” He thought he would spot her more frequently around Dany, silently standing guard and catching movements her Unsullied might miss.

“I went to the forges yesterday, wanted to see what they were working on.”

“Interested in becoming a blacksmith?”

“No,” she says, a bit defensively. “Just got bored watching people move stones and lumber.”

Although his curiosity isn’t satisfied, he drops it. The silence that follows isn’t as tense, though there seems to be a permanent gap between them. It’s lost some of its weight in the past few weeks, but he gets the feeling it won’t ever fully close. He doesn’t think it’s just Dany, they’re both just different. She doesn’t look up to him as she used to, not when she doesn’t need to. She’s grown into a hardened version of what he always knew she would be, he wasn’t prepared for it. These little afternoon visits aren’t enough to get reacquainted with her, or enough call his own attempts at reconciliation a valiant effort. “You never did tell me what happened after you left Westeros. ‘ _Training with the faceless men’_ led to more questions than answers.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d still like to hear it. You killed the Night King. A conclusion like that requires a detailed retelling of everything you did leading up to it.”

She smiles at his praise, not in pity or apology like she has been, but like she used to. She squares her shoulders, a mock smugness on her face “Well, you weren’t going to get it done, someone had to.”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Thank you, by the way. I didn’t think I would live to see the morning. I would have been as good as dead if you hadn’t done it when you did.”

“Being humble doesn’t suit you anymore, Your Grace. Got yourself a real crown and now you _sound_ like you think you’re better.”

“Shut it,” he says with a smile.

“I’m serious,” she replies, still teasing. “Has she been giving you lessons on how to sound royal?”

His heart warms at the mention of his wife. “She has mastered the skill, I’ll admit.”

“Don’t tell her I said it, but not even Sansa can manage to sound that regal.”

A laugh escapes him. “Don’t tell Dany or Sansa?”

“ _Either_ ,” she says, a hint of threat in her words. “I mean it, Jon.”

“I won’t say a word.” He promises. “So, what exactly are the faceless men?”

“I’ll tell you about it another time, it really is a long story. I’m sure you have to get back to being a King.”

He sighs, saddened that their talk is coming to an end. But she’s right, he has to go over tasks with Grey Worm, plans with Tyrion, make more attempts to win over the fickle Lords, and speak to Davos about the potential urgency of a prison house. The very thought makes him that much more impatient for night to fall, so he can rest and fall asleep with his wife in his arms.

“Don’t give me that look, you wanted this.” Her voice has lost some of its mirth. “We won’t have much time for long stories anymore.”

“Aye, I know,” he replies, the gap resituating itself as their banter comes to an end. “I’d like to hear the long stories, though. As many as you can spare for as long as you’re here.”

She’s quiet, contemplating his words, his silent request. “Well,” she starts, her voice light. “I’ll have to stick around for a little while, at least. I want to see if your child is doomed to have your broody face.”

“Gods, I hope not,” A laugh escapes him, surprised that _she_ would bring it up again. “Is it strange to hope your babe looks nothing like you?”

“Don’t know, never had one. But if the gods are kind, they’ll still look like a Stark. Just the best bits.” She says, looking him over, her eyes landing on his head. “Your hair isn’t so bad.”

He can picture it, an angelic face framed by soft, unruly raven curls. Dany would love that. “I suppose that wouldn’t be the worst thing.” He admits softly.

“We agree then, her face and your hair,” she gives him a pointed look. “Don’t tell her I said that either.”

\---------------

“Do we have reason to worry?” she asks, cutting into the roasted vegetables piled on her plate.

He shakes his head, swallowing down his food before answering. “It’s just petty theft, stealing blankets, food. Most are caught in the act anyway, and don’t cause any real trouble when their told to return what they’ve taken. Grey Worm and Rahko have given strict orders not to punish too harshly, or at all. The more unruly thieves are given a bit of a scare, but nothing more.”

“Why the prisons, then?”

“We should be proactive, because I don’t think this…peace will be indefinite. There was violence and murder before we came to the city, it’s bound to start up again as we’re returning to a bit of normalcy and the people aren’t as watched.”

She agrees with him. “That’s true. We can start soon, next week perhaps. When the houses are well underway. It’s going to be a lot more difficult to stop crimes from happening when people have their own places to sleep…it can’t hurt to be prepared for the worst.”

“Agreed. Next week, then. I’ll let him know.”

“We should look at the laws in place as well, make adjustments where we can. Crimes cannot be allowed to go unpunished. The poor and the weak will be _safe._ I’ll ensure it.”

 “I doubt don’t it.” He throws her a smile. “He did mention something else…”

“What?” She asks cautiously.

“He says women are already offering their… _services_ to men who are looking.” The way he blushes at the mention of sex endears her. “They might need a safe place to conduct their business.”

“He wants to open a brothel?” She asks plainly. “I must admit, I didn’t think Ser Davos would be the first to mention it.”

“Not for his own pleasure, but he’s insistent on it. He says we’re bound to fall into it sooner or later, but he doesn’t want to see people exploited and he worries that some will eventually give into their...darker desires and harm those who are unwilling. And it hasn’t happened yet, but…”

“As I said, the weak and the poor _will_ be safe. And the vulnerable. He’s right. If we don’t allow it, it could happen to people who don’t want it. Right under our noses. The best thing we can do is to give these women a safe environment if they wish to carry on with it.”

“The crown will own a brothel?” he asks with some trepidation.

“Of course not, but brothels will be _heavily_ watched and regulated. And they will not be allowed to cater to certain inclinations. Those who try will be severely punished.” She doesn’t need to expand, and he nods in agreement. “But if it’s just sex, and with women and men who choose to do it…well, it would be waste of time and resources to try and stop it. Tell Davos he can own the first one built.”

“Oh, he’ll love that,” he says with a laugh. “But I’ll tell him to start looking for a trustworthy owner.”

“You don’t want to oversee this project, my love?” She asks with a teasing smile.

He doesn’t blush again as she thought he would. “I suppose I could…I’ll have to go into the city some nights, seek out these women and find out who the kindest brothel keepers were before. They have insights we don’t have.”

She narrows her eyes, knowing that he’s trying to stir her irrational jealousy. It works. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“Do you not trust me?” He asks in amusement, clearly satisfied with her reaction.

“I don’t know,” she says, arching her brow, hoping her tone is void of her teasing. “I haven’t actually seen you around many beautiful women, let alone women who’d make it clear they’d like to bed you. Maybe you’ll be just like every other man who tires of his wife.”

Her bait works just as well, and a serious concern falls over his face. “Dany, you _know_ I would never—” Her smile threatens to break, her lips twitching slightly, and he spots it immediately. “That isn’t nice.”

“You’re too serious sometimes, Jon Snow,” she replies with a shrug. “Someone has to make you smile.”

“You do,” he says, his eyes going soft. “More than anyone.”

She taps her fingers on the table, telling herself that she can’t walk over and place herself on his lap and drown him in kisses for his sweet and simple words. “No need for flattery, Jon, we’re already married. Besides, I have some unfortunate business to attend to before I can drag you to bed and remind you that you’ll never have any need to visit a brothel.”

“Does he know you’re coming?” He asks, though his cheeks warm at her words.

“No. I still don’t know what I’m going to say. Or ask.” She didn’t, but that’s not what makes her so reluctant. She was nervous to face him alone. As little as his disappointment and anger meant to her, seeing it so plainly on his face would be jarring. He had looked at her so many different ways in his time as her Hand but never like that. She’s used to the look now, but only in strangers, and not in people she used to call friends.

“Well…Sansa spent years in King’s Landing. So did Tyrion, they know how this…game works.”

“She isn’t trying to play a game; she wants me gone. And she’s angry enough to be impatient. A deadly combination and there’ll be no strategy in it.”

“There is. If she just wanted you gone, she would have tried already. She could try to plan something, talk to people and pull them to her stance. He might be able to tell you how she’ll go about doing that, or what we can do to stay one step ahead.”

“Or he can give all his clever insight and end up being wrong in everything. He’s done it before.”

“You don’t have to listen this time.”

“Fine,” she sighs with a heavy reluctancy. “I can’t promise I won’t come back angry, though. If he ruins my evening, I’m going straight to sleep.”

“Should I plan to go ask about the brothels tonight, then?” His voice is teasing again, trying to lighten her mood before she makes her dreaded walk to Tyrion’s room.

“You leave this keep and I’ll have Grey Worm drag you back like a child, and _then_ I’ll go straight to sleep, perhaps alone.” He only smiles at her retort, his eyes going soft again.

“How did your talk with Sam go?” he asks, after a few minutes of quite eating and shy smiles. She can tell by the edge in his voice that he’s been waiting to ask, and worried that she hadn’t brought it up first.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she answers, setting down her fork. “I’m sorry, Jon, he just—”

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” he says quickly with wave of his hand, cutting off her apologetic guilt. “I knew it was a possibility. What did he say, to make you decide?”

“He didn’t say anything, actually. I asked him if he could be our Warden and he said he was loyal to you, but he couldn’t be loyal to me. There was never any chance for me to change his mind.”

His lips settle into a grim line at her words. “Well, he can’t exactly go back to the Night’s Watch with Gilly and their children, what do we do with him?”

“Horn Hill. He and I already discussed it. He’ll be freed of his vows, he’ll no longer be allowed study at the Citadel, and he’ll go home with his family.”

He’s still angry, disappointed, his fist clenched tightly around the cloth napkin on the table. “I’m sorry, Dany. We wasted so much time on him and—”

“If I can’t apologize, neither can you. We’re bound to have some missteps, Jon. All we need to do is look at the other houses in the region, and perhaps find the most competent lord rather than the most powerful. Anyone who holds Highgarden will surpass all of them anyway.”

He isn’t appeased but he doesn’t say anything more about it.

She stands, tossing her own napkin onto her cleared plate. “I suppose I should go, before it gets too late.”

He stands too, and immediately walks over to her side, pulling her to him. She steps as close as she can. There’s no urgency in their movements, only an unavoidable need to hold one another.

“If he makes you upset, he isn’t allowed to have a drop of wine for the rest of his life.” He mumbles into her hair.

She smiles against his chest. “I’ll hold you too that, Jon Snow. But that means I’ll definitely never speak to him again. I’ve come to find out that a sober Tyrion is a lot less insightful than a drunk one. He’s also incredibly boring.”

He chuckles, pulling away from her slightly. “Alright, off with you. I’ll just be here, cold and lonely.”

“It is rather cold in here,” she says, adjusting the cloak she never removed. “Feel free to start a fire while I’m gone.”

She moves to leave the room, trying to ignore his adorable, exaggerated pout.

“I’ll still be lonely.”

“That’ll be the case more frequent then not, if we’re going to lead the people right. Late nights filled with necessary talks. You should send for that wolf of yours to keep you company.” She calls over her shoulder.

“Perhaps I will, he won’t leave me like you do.” He answers back.

Their simple, easy moment is over when the door closes behind her, and the warm light of their room is replaced with the cold, empty darkness of the corridor. She doesn’t cower in it though, not as she had before. She embraces the strength of the stone walls, basks in the chill of the air that makes her alert and ready to face anything. Her nerves still buzzed at the prospect of meeting with him alone, but she would be ready.

She thinks for a brief moment that she should be more worried, not because of what he might say, but what he might do. He would never be able to kill her, not with her guards just outside the door, their ears trained enough to hear every breathe. But he could still harm her, lunge at her before she has a chance to blink. It wouldn’t be impossible, he’s killed a woman before with just the chain around her neck, a secret he had revealed to her when they had been close, after a particularly stressful day and a flagon of wine. It was a tragically dark tale, one that coaxed a hesitant sympathy from her at the time. Now she only hears it as warning. That woman had been closer to him than she ever was, had once loved him as a woman loves a man, and he still took her life in a fit of anger. He’s angrier now, and she doubts she ever meant as much to him as his lover did. He’s already tried to have her killed before, after all. She wonders if he felt any guilt over it.

Immersed in her own thoughts, she doesn’t realize she’s reached her destination until she’s in the small room, the low light of the candles just enough to light the wooden table and the arms of the chairs. It’s not as warm or inviting as it had been at their tense meal with the Starks, but she wasn’t looking to be warm or inviting.

She turns, smiling at the guards on duty. It was her Dothraki this night, covered in furs and faces fixed with stern devotion. “Send for Tyrion Lannister, please.” One of the men, Jahko she believes his name is, immediately turns to carry out her request. “And bind his hands.”

She would be cautious, even if it made her look scared. The life within her was too important and precious to risk.

She circles around the table, wishing more than anything she could drink a cup of strong wine to calm her inconvenient nerves.

All too soon, she hears the sure footsteps of Jahko returning, accompanied by quickened shuffling and jangling chains.

“At the very least, you could have the courtesy to tell me why I was pulled from my _very_ warm bed…” The slight tremble in his voice gives away his nerves, despite how easy he’s trying to sound.

Jahko reaches the entrance, but he doesn’t come in, he gives her a quick nod and turns to pull Tyrion forward, giving him a slight push into the room. “Anything more, Khaleesi?”

“That will be all, Jahko. Close the door, please.”

Tyrion stares at her, shifting on his feet, giving away his discomfort.

The door closes softly and the awkward tension between them is swift to fill the room, so heavy she briefly wonders if it would snuff out the few burning candles they have.

She wants him dead; it’s no secret. And he wants the same of her. _Wanted_ , at least, and between the pair of them, he was the one who made the first move to try and see it done. It isn’t something she’s likely to forget.

“Tyrion.”

“I…My Queen—”

“Don’t call me that.” She snaps, his betrayal rushing up to occupy every space in her mind. He shouldn’t call her that. “Sit down. I want this over quickly.”

He sighs, walking over to the table. “Eager to return to your husband?” He asks, his voice fabricated with ease.

His infuriating pleasantries do nothing to cool her fire and one look at her face drains him of his paltry efforts.

She waits impatiently for him to settle into the chair, her own body begging her to sit as well, weak from standing all day, drowsy from the hearty meal she just had. She only fights the urge for a moment before she gives in, her child the only firm and immovable thought that tells her she can no longer ignore what her body tells her because she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.

She settles into her own chair, the hard wood digging into her bottom uncomfortably. She pulls the cloak closer around her form, a poor effort to protect herself from the warmth, but it would be useless to light the braziers for a brief meeting.

She sits back and only stares at him, her former Hand. The man who once knelt at her feet and proclaimed she was the only thing he believed in. _What had changed?_ It wasn’t her; her goals stayed the same, the means inevitable, yet he began to dance around them as soon as they’d arrived. She should have listened to Ellaria, to Yara. To Olenna. Anyone but him. The Seven Kingdoms would have been hers within months. Missandei and Ser Jorah would have been at her side to see her crowned. She would have been happy when it finally happened.

As the silence drags on, he studies her, his eyes only observant, not giving away any of his feelings.

“You look well,” he finally says, having the nerve to sound soft. “Your new role fits you.”

“Queen or wife?” She asks, her own voice still hard and unreceptive. She doesn’t want to converse with him and act as if nothing was wrong, but she feels a strange need to.

He smiles weakly, sadly. “You’ve always been a Queen. Wife, though…it’s a title you wear quite well.”

She feels uncomfortable under his gaze now, and the affection his words imply. It all feels false. “Jon is under the impression that you’re still a valuable person to keep around. You’re alive because he let you live; I hope you know that. He is the only reason I’m here, forcing myself to listen to more of your ill-fated council. So, let’s not waste time pretending that we’re anything more than what we are. I’m the Queen, and you are our prisoner, nothing more.”

Much to her frustration, he only continues to look pitifully sad, his smile fading into a thin line.

“And what council do you need this late in the evening, hmm? Without your allies and your husband around?”

“Sansa Stark.”

His eyebrows shoot up into his unkempt hair. “I suspect this wasn’t your idea?”

“I’m not the one who thinks you might have something useful to say.”

“Why didn’t he come?”

“Because if you’re going to continue to live in my keep giving council to my husband, I need to know exactly how dangerous you are to our safety.”

“I can’t be very dangerous, Your Grace, my hands are bound.”

“It’s your words that are my concern. After all, you were too cowardly to use your own hands the last time.”

He flinches at her biting tone.

 _Why did you do it?_ She wants to ask. It’s on the tip of her tongue. But it would come out pleading and hurt and miserably confused. She doesn’t want to have that conversation with him, ever. If she asks, he’ll answer. With honesty. And she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She doesn’t want to understand him any more than he tried to understand her. Instead on an onslaught of fury, she gets an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

“You can’t possibly believe I could tempt Jon Snow like that again. Even I know it’s impossible, that man is devoted to you.”

“ _Tempt_? What a kind way of phrasing your attempted manipulation. And no, I know it’s impossible. But you could try to betray us in other ways. Bad council, purposeful sabotage of the tasks you’re given…nothing you say holds any value to me.”

“Why keep me alive at all, then?”

“Jon is my husband. My King. He would never do or say anything to hurt us. As much as I’d rather kill you and be done with it, I respect his decision.”

He looks confused, and she understands why. His act of treason was against her, not Jon. She should have the final word in whether he lives or dies, but she doesn’t want it. No matter how vengeful she feels, how constant her anger is…she’s so tired of death.

“What is it about Sansa Stark that concerns you?” He asks softly, leaning back into the chair.

“Even with her brother on the throne, she isn’t happy. She doesn’t seem to grasp how dependent the North is on the southern kingdoms. She wants to duties of a Warden, someone who benefits from a relationship with the other kingdoms, with the title of Queen.”

“Why is that any bother to you?”

“The North is one of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not give it away to some girl because she stomps her foot and demands it. Her pride is a nuisance and deterrent to a peaceful future.”

“ _Her_ pride? What’s one less kingdom, Your Grace? It seems to me, the quickest way to peace is to concede.”

“Jon bent the knee. The North is mine because I earned it. Sansa was only ever the sister to the King in the North, and then she was the sister to the Warden of the North. As of this moment, she holds no titles at all, because we haven’t given any to her. As I said, I will not give away my largest Kingdom to some girl because she stomps her foot and demands it.”

He tilts his head, his eyes moving around the room. “I suppose when you say it like that, it’s quite simple. You’d be completely in the right; Sansa is in no position to make demands. However, it _isn’t_ simple. Sansa is the daughter of the beloved Ned Stark. And when word reaches the North of Jon’s true father, they’ll stand behind her because their grudges demand it.”

“Even so, she lacks an army. Every house in the North has lost fathers, sons, and brothers. They have no one left to give for a useless cause.”

“It’s only useless if all the Starks are gone. Grudges and pride strengthened by their inherent stubbornness. Easy for you to remedy, really. They’re all here, you could take them out quietly and with little fuss,” she opens her mouth to protest the idea, but he continues. “But seeing as you’re _here_ , speaking to me, you don’t want to do that. Because you know the consequences would be more severe than you’d like.”

“Because they’re Jon’s family,” she corrects. It’s truer than she’d like to admit, it only makes her look foolish. But she knows she wouldn’t hesitate to take action if it was any other lord in any other kingdom.  “Besides, Arya and Bran are not causing issues and it doesn’t look they will. But I need Sansa’s defiance neutralized. Quickly.”

“Is there a reason for the urgency?” His curiosity is superficial, but it still sets her on edge.

 _My child cannot be born in the middle of another war._ “I want peace, and she’s the only person that stands in the way of that. She needs to realize she’s fighting a losing battle.”

“Sansa’s a smart girl, perhaps she doesn’t think that because she has a plan. One that she thinks will be successful.”

“She’s stubborn. Her brother is King, just as she wanted, and she’s upset her clever plan didn’t work as she’d hoped. Northern independence isn’t so much about ending the suffering of her people under unjust rulers so much as it is about her own desire for power.”

“That’s a rather harsh assessment, don’t you think? Sansa doesn’t know you very well, but you don’t know her any better.”

“I don’t need to know anymore; her actions have shown me just what I need to know.”

“And I’m sure she thinks the same of your actions,” he says, his defense growing a little harsher. “Based on what she’s seen, it’s not wrong for her to think the North will suffer under unjust rulers if it is not independent.”

She takes a deep breath, not wanting to give into the urge to lash out and defend herself. _I defended her home, I saved her life,_ she wants to say. But it doesn’t matter to anyone, let alone Tyrion. He still betrayed her anyway. “Then how do make her _see_? Despite my own feeling towards her, I don’t want her dead, and I don’t want Jon to have to choose between me and his family. It would break his heart, but she doesn’t seem to care.”

“I’m not sure you can, or if you should. Even if she does concede, your relationship with the North will fragile at best.”

“Why? Jon may not be a Stark in name, but he was raised by their _beloved_ Ned Stark, that should count for something.”

“Why?” He asks, leaning forward. He’s getting more comfortable, more at ease with challenging her. She leans back, her back stiffening. “Because everything that should matter doesn’t anymore. Jon married a Targaryen. He _is_ a Targaryen, no matter who raised him. That’s how they’ll see it, anyway. And you know why. When she returns North, Sansa won’t downplay what she’s seen. And when she tells the people that their former King is married to the woman who did it, and appears to be happily under her spell, they’ll only say he failed his father. That he betrayed everything his father fought for. And Sansa will make it very clear that _she_ _is_ her father’s daughter…and that you are yours.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, feeling suddenly defeated. It always comes back to that. _Always_. “I didn’t come here for you to tell me that I need to give a Sansa what she wants.”

“No, you came here to hear a truth that no one else will give you. You’ve surrounded yourself by people who don’t care what you’ve done. They’ll tell you to do what you want because you already have before.”

“Jon wouldn’t.” She says firmly.

“No, but Jon is very…protective of you. Especially now.”

“Why especially now?” she asks, almost nervously.

By the quick scrunch of his brows, he catches nearly imperceptible shake in her question, but he mercifully ignores it. “He’s made mistakes in the past; he’s overcompensating for them now by making you believe everything you want is possible. Maybe he believes it too, but I’ve never been that idealistic. And I’m here to tell you that it might not be possible.”

“You need to tell me how I _can_ make it possible. I will not grovel at her feet; I’m offering her a position she has not earned. Northerners will receive much needed aid from the South, and I will not expect anything in return until after winter. I’ll not compromise more than I already have. I’ll forgive her slights so long as she returns North and governs it’s people _in my name_.”

“She’s heard your offer, and she doesn’t like it,” he says, a bit of frustration in his words. “You may not understand this, Your Grace, but you do not have the strong upper hand that you think you do. All she has to do is point at your actions, object _loudly_ , and she could have people standing with her. And the more people she has, the bolder they’ll become, and the more they’ll inspire others to reject your rule as well. Your armies are not enough to bring a whole continent to heel, not anymore. You’re not in an ideal position to make demands and expect people to follow them without question. People are frightened, but they’re also _angry_. You _have_ to compromise. You’ve made grave mistakes, and Sansa is smart enough to use them to her own advantage.”

“Then _how_ do you suggest I compromise,” she asks lowly, her hands fisted tightly in her lap. Everything he’s said has crossed her mind before, in one way or another, but hearing it said aloud deflates her, makes her hot with anger that is only directed at herself.

“You can relinquish _some_ power over the North to her—”

“That’s not how monarchy works, Tyrion.”

“You want to be different, no? You’ve said it before, the monarchy can be whatever you want it to be. Besides, Prince Quentyn and Yara Greyjoy have their independence, for the most part, and they’re still part of the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps you should consider offering Sansa the same level of independence, or something similar.”

“The Iron Islands aren’t an entire Kingdom. Yara earned the right to rule it and she still took it back in my name. We had agreement. I made no such agreement with Sansa,” she bit back, completely against the idea. “And Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, not conquest. As they never bent the knee, they never lost their right independence.”

“Well, the same could be said for the North, if you look at it a certain way. Jon, King of the North, married you, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He bent the knee, he married me as Warden of the North.”

“Reinstate his title,” he shrugs, “Put it in writing and make the title permanent. He is King in the North as well as of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa gets what she wants, and independent North. Though, as only a semi-autonomous entity, it will still be very much a part of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“She still won’t be Queen,” she points out.

“No, but she’s in the same position as you, not quite enough to have the upper hand. She’ll need to compromise as well. The _Princess_ of the North, ruling in her brother’s name.”

“Doesn’t have the same appeal as ‘the Prince of Dorne’ and if _I_ think that, she’ll certainly hate it.”

“It’s more than you’re offering her now, it might be just enough to settle her.”

She doesn’t like the idea. In fact, she’s already rejected it in her own mind. If she made that offer to Sansa, others would expect it as well, and her kingdoms would fall apart. But it pushes her right back to her main conflict. “ _How_ do I get her to listen? What can I possibly say that she won’t reject out of hatred for me? None of this matters if I can’t do that.”

“That, I’m not so sure…I knew her once, but she’s been through a lot since then. War and violence have changed her just as much as it’s changed everyone else. Perhaps if I spoke to her first—”

“No.”

“Alright…well, the two of you have unfortunately been through much of the same experiences, if you try to relate to her in that way—”

“I’m not going to exploit those experiences, Tyrion,” she says in disgust. It’s an easy emotion to settle into, sitting across from him. “It’s insulting. To her, and to me. Perhaps at some point it would have been something for us to…bond over. But not now. She’ll know I’m only using it as a political move. It would do more harm than good.”

He sighs, again, looking conflicted, and for the first time looking truly hesitant and fearful to speak. “I don’t think you can threaten her into submission. So, your only hope, besides offering a compromise, it to put in the effort to form a relationship with her. If you won’t try a more personal approach, then you should appeal to the fact that Jon is someone you both love very much…and perhaps make her aware of the necessity for peace.” He finishes softly, with a quick glance down from her face. Enough to make her aware that he knows.

She feels the color drain from her face, and she instinctively tightens to cloak around her. She stares at him, unsure of what to say, if she should pretend that he doesn’t know. “What do you mean by that?” She asks slowly, her jaw strained.

“I think you know. You’ve slipped up a few times, and I get the feeling you aren’t referring to Jon and yourself when you say ‘us,’” he replies, his voice just above a whisper. “Your coats are looser, you have a heavy cloak, when we both know you don’t need it. It’s not as cold here as it was in Winterfell. And you’re _here_ , asking for help, when I know I’m the last person you want to see. You’re desperate for the fighting to stop. It’s not difficult to put together.”

He still hasn’t said the words, and she holds onto the slip of hope that maybe he’s thinking something else, even if everything he’s saying only point to the truth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She says as calmly as she can.

He looks at her, a myriad of emotions flashing through his eyes. “Compromise with Sansa, give her a small portion of what she wants, and make her aware that her _family_ is at risk if she chooses a more forceful approach, not just you.”

She feels herself growing more uncomfortable, trapped in the small cold room and impatient to put dozens of walls between them. “I don’t think family will change her mind.”

“Perhaps not on its own. But the Sansa I knew was a sweet, _kind_ girl, who was empathetic to the less fortunate and receptive to people who treated her as more than an object to use as they please. She might still be there, if the world hasn’t killed her yet.”

She closes her eyes, wholly unsatisfied with their conversation. She shouldn’t have come. If she stayed with Jon, she would have been more confident in her previous plan to be stern with Sansa. If she stayed with Jon, Tyrion wouldn’t know the truth.

That thought alone makes her feel sick. The man who tried to have her killed knows their secret. She suddenly feels too close to him, too vulnerable. She doesn’t feel fear, only pressed with the growing need to burn him alive to protect what she has so he doesn’t try and take this away too.

She stands quickly, careful not to look him in the eye. He doesn’t move from his chair, though she can feel his eyes on her.

“Congratulations, Your Grace.” He offers, so quietly she wasn’t sure if she was meant to hear it. It doesn’t help to calm her.

When she reaches the door, she turns to face him. “If you say a word to anyone, I will take great pleasure in having you killed.”

Her threat is strong enough to make him look fearful and he gives her a serious nod, though she doesn’t believe it. _I can’t trust him to keep his word. It’s too dangerous. I need to protect my child._

She pulls the door open forcefully and Jahko quickly fills the doorway, deadly concern on his face at her abrupt actions. “Take him to his room. He’ll remain there indefinitely. See to it that he has no visitors.” It was the safest thing to do, the only thing that would mollify her. It’s her secret to have control over.

On her way back, his council was far from her mind. All she could think about was how he betrayed her, how he threw his pin down the snow-covered stairs, how he chose his traitorous family over her, and how he now knew that she carried the child she always thought was impossible.

\---------------

“Dany tell me what’s wrong. _Please_.”

She sighs, knowing her subdued energy has done nothing but make him anxiously worried since she returned.

She curls deeper into his side, finally warm and finally comfortable. “Tyrion knows.” Just as she knew they would, his arms tighten around her. “It’s my fault, I slipped up. I put our child in danger.”

“You didn’t. Between the two of us, our child will always be safe. Never doubt that…What are you going to do with him?”

“He’s not leaving his rooms until I say otherwise. Someone else can finish managing the sewers.”

“Alright,” She’s thankful that he doesn’t question her decision. “They’re almost done anyway; he hasn’t been directing so much as overseeing. I can see to it the project is done myself.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I asked you to go, I shouldn’t have pressed the issue.”

“It’s not your fault, Jon.”

“It is…did he say anything useful? Anything that was worth going at all?”

“I didn’t care much for anything he said,” she says right away, but some of his words come to mind, and she can’t deny the validity of them. “But I suppose it’s a good thing I went. He reminded me of some…truths I needed to hear. Things to keep in mind.”

“Can I assume he held his tongue for the most part? Seeing as you weren’t in a terrible mood when you returned.” His light tone brings her back to the moment, making her smile despite the wave of anxiety churning in her stomach.

“Not exactly, but I won’t go to sleep angry because of him. He doesn’t matter, Jon. And we won’t let him control what we do or make us afraid. We can’t.”

“I agree,” he says softly, she can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“Go to sleep, Jon. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Hmm, I won’t object to that. Wake me up, though, if you can’t sleep.”

“I will,” she says, but she wouldn’t. She was just as tired as he was, and she’s hopeful that she’ll fall into a deep sleep, too far away for her nightmares to reach.

His breathing begins to even out, his arms relaxing around her. “Jon?” she starts, before he’s completely gone from the world.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you…in Winterfell. After Sam told you.”

He’s quiet, maybe confused as to why she would bring it up now. “That’s not your fault, Dany. I avoided you, I hurt you.”

“I could have tried harder,” she insists. “I never asked you how you felt. I just…you can talk to me about it. If you want to, that is.”

“We’ve already talked about it.” He says, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “But…I don’t know much about Rhaegar, and even though he died before you were born…”

“I have some stories,” she says, a bit eagerly. “Whenever you want to hear them.”

He leans down and softly kisses the crown of her head. “Thank you.”

“Alright, go to sleep. I won’t bother you again.” She snuggles closer to him, feeling a little giddy at his interest in their family.

He lets out a small laugh. “I doubt that, but I don’t mind it.”

She listens again, his slow breaths and his relaxed arms, and she tries to follow quickly, not wanting to be left alone in the world with growing threats and hard truths and the dark thoughts that she feels catching up to her.

As per usual, long after he falls asleep, she’s still awake, wrestling with something. This time, she's unable to stop hearing what Tyrion said to her.

_“Sansa will make it very clear that she is her father’s daughter…and that you are yours.”_

It scares her, how close that seems to being true, though she knows it’s not. She isn’t mad, of that she’s sure. What else does it make her?

_“You’ve surrounded yourself by people who don’t care what you’ve done.”_

They care _, they do_ , but they see that she’s trying. They see that she’s sorry.

Maybe sorry isn’t enough.

_“You’ve made grave mistakes.”_

It was her only option. That’s what she constantly tells herself. The only way to end the war for good. It couldn’t have been a mistake. It wasn’t.

She’s feels close to it, dangerously so. Just a few steps behind now. The next corner she turns, it will finally touch her heels and she won’t be able to outrun it any longer. It’ll grab her and pull her under. Perhaps she deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I just decided that Sam isn't right for the job, they'll be looking elsewhere. Arya's trying, Sansa is being Sansa, and Tyrion still has a soft spot for Daenerys, but they both have A LOT they want to say to each other. Eventually. If it wasn't properly conveyed, that wasn't meant to be a comfortable conversation. Daenerys wanted to bolt the entire time and Tyrion was just trying to figure her out.
> 
> I've made it my goal to be 1000% better at responding to comments because I'm shit at it right now, so if you have a question or anything, hopefully I can answer it. I really do appreciate them and I reread them when I need some motivation to write, so thank you to all of you guys who leave comments :) and hell, thank you to everyone who continues to read this thing, even though I'm not exactly treating our queen the way any of us want. All I can do is keep promising that she will have a happy ending, it'll just be a lil harder to get there. 
> 
> Also, hit me up on tumblr @ eleanorrose05 if you wanna chat :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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